


The Spirits in New York City

by Ramona (miss_heathen)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Angst, Blood, Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Prohibition, Russian Mafia, Smut, Violence, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29234793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_heathen/pseuds/Ramona
Summary: It's 1920s NYC. It's Prohibition, it's grimy, and it's roaring. Ivan Braginski, known colloquially as Ivan the Terrible, is poised to be the inheritor of the most powerful mafia clan in the city. Alfred F. Jones is a mere bootlegger trying to make ends meet in an increasingly slowing economy. What will happen when they meet eyes in a nightclub one fateful night?
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My third fic on here! Updates will be slow because of college, but rest assured, I will not abandon this. I pinky promise. I love mafia AUs, so hopefully I do them justice! Enjoy!

New York City, 1924. The streets were dirty and cold, reflecting the way of life for many. With Prohibition in full swing, many of those who desired the taste of booze had to turn to the underground world of speakeasies. The secret bars were hidden in basements, in the back rooms of churches, and sometimes in an average-looking house. Of course, these shady establishments were run by equally shady people. With the influx of immigrants in the previous decade came whole families looking to make profitable businesses, no matter what.

The Braginskis were one of those families, driven from their homeland by the unstable political climate. They simply did not have the patience to deal with such tedious issues. But they made themselves comfortable in the massive city by setting up a number of speakeasies quickly after Prohibition took hold of the country. 

They catered to all levels of society, bringing high-quality spirits from around the world to anyone who could afford their prices. Even the police, whose job was to enforce the law against selling alcohol, succumbed to the Braginskis generous offers in exchange for turning a blind eye and a full flask. 

Of course, with every new business comes competition. The rivalries started out fairly formal, with a few threats and some beatings, maybe a ransom or two, but the general simplicity was slowly devolving.

That was where Ivan came in. Ivan the Enforcer some called him, or Ivan the Terrible. He personally didn’t care for nicknames, though. He was the son of Nicolai Branginski, the head of the family, and used his power and reputation to his advantage.

Well, he couldn’t really do much at the moment.

The ashy-haired man sighed into his drink and turned over his shoulder to take note of his sisters’ whereabouts. They had insisted on dragging him out ‘for fun’ to a local dance club that wasn’t owned by any rival families. It seemed like fun for everyone but him. The band was playing loud, upbeat swing music; the floor was filled with people dancing. But Ivan was staying at the bar. He wasn’t the best at socializing, and truthfully, he only allowed his sisters to drag him here so he could protect them. Every man who approached his sisters for a dance was watched and studied. His gloved hands flexed around his glass, knowing that his .38 was safely tucked underneath his tan suit jacket if needed. It probably wouldn’t be needed, though.

His younger sister dismissed another man, and Ivan turned back to his drink. 

_I’ll give them another 15 minutes. Then, we’ll leave,_ he thought to himself.

This wasn't the first time Ivan had been dragged out for 'fun' by his sisters, and he knew it wouldn't be the last. He took a small sip of his scotch while his eyes observed the club. Scotch wasn't his favorite drink, but it was good for slow sips while his thoughts wandered. There was an Irish gang that had been giving his family some trouble on the East Side, so he would have to handle that eventually. There was also that meeting he had to attend with his father the next day.

Holding his glass in both hands, he stared down at the drink with furrowed brows as a few particular thoughts ran through his head. He scoffed at himself, then took another sip before he gave himself another headache. It wasn't worth thinking too hard about certain things. It was pointless, actually.

On the other side of New York City was another tale, one that would coincide quite violently with the Braginskis. The Jones family was an almost-destitute family living in the Bronx, in a small shack next to a welding shop that was falling apart at the seams. The father worked at the welding shop, earning barely enough to buy their daily bread, the mother worked as a maid on the Upper East Side, Matthew was a lumberjack, and Alfred, well, he was complicated.

The family couldn’t afford to send them to college. College wasn’t even an option to them and was never talked about as a goal. That was for the rich people who could afford private tutors or to have a building on the campus named after them. Tired of being poor for the entirety of his life, Alfred ignored the menial jobs thrown his way that would just continue the cycle of poverty and found something more...lucrative. The downside was that it was highly illegal.

He worked as a bootlegger for some big shot liquor mogul in Manhattan, transporting the liquor to the various speakeasies and secret bars across the city. The problem was not only the police—that was easy to solve. With enough money, their mouths were shut. The problem was the Braginski family. Most notably, their bloodthirsty son, Ivan. Or that’s what Alfred knew about him. He had been thoroughly debriefed by his boss’ assistant on the first day of the job. _Avoid all contact with the Braginskis and their associates if you want to keep your balls._ Alfred very much wanted to, so he took the advice to heart. 

He never knew he would see the very threat to his testicles in a neutral nightclub where he was performing a side job for another liquor distributor. Yes, it was best to stay loyal to one distributor, but the bills didn’t pay themselves.

So, as he was surreptitiously handing a bottle of liquor wrapped in a paper bag to a customer in one of the booths, he locked eyes with Ivan across the bar. He expected a scarred fifty-year-old with a snaggletooth. But Ivan was almost...pleasant-looking. But that didn’t mean that he could ignore the shiver of fear that was sent down his spine. He collected his money and left in a hurry, his hands in his pockets, one holding the money and the other grasping his Colt.

Ivan Braginski’s amethyst eyes looked up from his drink, once again scanning the room for anyone who seemed like trouble. Almost everyone in the club knew who he was, which meant almost everyone was avoiding him and his gaze. Except for one person, apparently.

When the bright blue gaze met his violet, he blinked in slight surprise. But, then the blue eyes turned away, which immediately made Ivan tense up. That was one of the distributors, he was fairly sure. Someone who wasn't working for the Braginskis.

He looked back at his sisters, who were having a fine time on the dance floor. They wouldn't notice him disappearing for a moment or two. With one swift moment, he threw back his drink and stood from his stool, then motioned for the bartender to save his spot. He moved gracefully through the crowd despite his size, weaving in between people towards a side door. A few people noticed the tall Russian moving through the crowd with a determined expression, but they were smart enough to ignore it. It was Ivan after all, so any sort of 'problem' he had with someone would be dealt with outside and away from them. The Braginskis, unlike some families, were known for their efficiency and 'cleanliness' when dealing with issues. When certain people caused certain problems, they vanished. No mess, no evidence, not a single sign of warning or struggle. They were just gone.

“Oh my God oh my God oh my God,” Alfred kept whispering to himself, his fingers curling tighter around the gun as he saw in his peripheral vision Ivan getting up slowly. He glanced over his shoulder, and those narrowed purple eyes were staring straight at him, the Russian barreling toward him at a slow but intimidating pace. He turned his head back around, trying not to look suspicious, but the sweat beads growing on his hairline and his fast pace toward the exit made a few people whisper and stare. He was doing the exact thing his boss told him not to do: draw attention. Why did he have to accept this side job? It was only for a few coins. But he had been craving butter, and God knew that that was getting more expensive by the day. But was butter really worth getting his balls cut off? 

He managed to slip by a few people who were blocking the exit and opened the door, stumbling outside and leaning against the wall, out of breath from the impromptu chase. His clammy fingers loosened on the Colt and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He had earned a profit and managed to slip by the infamous Ivan the Terrible. His boss would be proud.

Or so he thought.

Ivan paused a moment by the door, checking his watch for the time and counting off a few extra seconds in his head. The man he was pursuing would most likely take a break outside the door but still have his guard up. So, waiting a moment or two was beneficial.

After his countdown, he straightened his jacket and casually slipped out the door. He immediately spotted the other, and without hesitation, he approached. His long legs brought him uncomfortably close to the other man in a second, and his expression was pleasantly neutral. "Do you know how rude it is to stare at someone, then run away without saying 'hello?’" His accent was thick, but he spoke with delicate articulation. "If I did not know any better, I would say you didn't want to talk to me."

“Ah,” Alfred stuttered, his voice cracking out of nervousness. Damn his voice. He was still young, merely nineteen, but puberty was way in the past. “No, not at all. I just...have somewhere to be.”

He tucked his hands back in his pockets, his finger on the safety, prepared to take it off at any minute. He stared down at his feet, trying to not make direct eye contact with the Russian. He didn’t want to seem like he was intimidating him. He only then noticed the scotch wafting of Ivan’s breath with a hint of...was that lavender? Alfred took in Ivan’s solid frame. He probably worked out every single day. Alfred gulped, not from fear but from...something else. Something unknown. He decided to let that thought slide and focus on the task at hand: try not to get captured and tortured and killed by Ivan. He was ruthless. He would be suffering for weeks if not months on end. Meanwhile, his family would be homeless and sleeping in a tent on the streets without his sizable income to keep them afloat. No. He was going to stand his ground, and if deterring Ivan was the way, so be it. He looked back up at Ivan, at those impossibly violet eyes that refused to leave him, with a soft smile.

“I’m sure you have many interesting things to say, Ivan. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Fear was something Ivan knew very well. The someone's voice shook, the way their shoulders tensed, and the way they dodged the other's gaze. Every human on the planet felt fear at one point or another, and they all showed it the same way.

But this man, with a stutter in his voice and hands deep in his pockets, wasn't showing the fear Ivan was used to seeing. The shorter blond was clearly intimidated, but not cowering with fear like people usually did. It was probably because of the poorly-hid gun in his pocket. Regardless, none of it phased him. 

"Ah, you seem to know my name, but I do not know yours." Despite the calmness of the words, it was clearly a command for an answer.

_How odd this man is,_ Ivan thought to himself. He dared to smile up at him after trying to run away? Well, with those bright blue eyes and gentle facial features, the other probably thought he could get away with a lot of things.

Alfred swallowed his fear and whatever that other emotions were and continued to level his gaze at Ivan.

“Why should I tell you my name?” he asked, taking his finger off the gun and crossing his arms. He wanted to show Ivan he could fight without the gun and was not afraid to. He grew up in rough neighborhoods, moving around from time to time, meaning he didn’t have a group to associate with and, most importantly, to protect him. So whenever he moved to a new neighborhood, the problem children there would beat him up for his tattered clothes or the few coins he had in his pocket, and in the process, he learned quite a few moves. Hardly enough to immobilize the giant Russian, but enough to scrape away with his life. 

Alfred scoffed and tucked a lock of blond hair behind his eye. “For all I know, you’ll use it against me. We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Where was this confidence coming from? Was Alfred just projecting his usual bravado onto Ivan? Bad choice. Or was it? Maybe Ivan would respect his courage. Or maybe he’d feel intimidated and kill him. Either way, Ivan still hadn’t made a move yet, so Alfred leaned against the wall again lazily, raising his eyebrows expectantly. The fear was subsiding, replaced with the intense focus he had on Ivan’s face. How it was structured, how his hair fell down almost perfectly, how his eyes…

He looked down. Those thoughts again. He looked back up at Ivan and cocked his head, wearing the same small smile as before. 

Oh, so the man was cocky. Overconfident. Ivan's upper lip almost twitched. In a way, it was more amusing to scare people who acted like they weren't scared of anything. This American was definitely a fighter. One had to be in their cutthroat world. It was almost admirable if it wasn't so annoying.

His body remained still as stone with his gaze unwavering. The other was attractive, Ivan could admit that to himself. He had come to terms with the depraved thoughts that popped up in his head from time to time. The thoughts were immoral, but so were many of his actions. Nothing he couldn't repress. Besides, he had a job to do.

"Use it against you?" he echoed, tilting his head just a little. "Oh, no, no. I am asking a simple, friendly question. A question that I do not have to be as friendly to ask a second time." 

His hands shifted ever-so-slightly, like a snake readying an attack. "You see, the thing that you should want... is to leave this alley with both of your arms still attached to your body."

It was as if the more Ivan wanted to intimidate him, the more Alfred wanted to prove something. He uncrossed his arms and looked at them, nodding and pretending to take in the sight of them.

“Hm, I s’pose I like these very much,” Alfred said, bringing a finger to his chin. “They’re pretty useful. So I’ll tell you my name, Ivan Braginski.”

Alfred stuck out his hand, biting his lip. Did Ivan have a machete behind that enormous back of his? Would he just pull it out and chop off his arm without even flinching? But he kept his arm out, willing the Russian to try something dangerous. 

“Alfred.”

When Ivan didn’t respond right away, Alfred continued, “That’s all you’re getting out of me. This time. Maybe next time we meet I’ll tell you my last name. If I get a next time...if you don’t murder me first.”

Alfred liked talking to Ivan. Of course, they’d only shared three phrases of dialogue, but Ivan was funny. In the scary sort of way. He was nice. In the scary sort of way. Maybe Alfred just liked scary people. And Ivan was no exception.

If the other ran, Ivan could snatch his collar and throw him against the wall. If he tried to fight, Ivan would bring his knee right up into the other's rib cage. There were a thousand and one scenarios that the Russian ran through his head, expecting the cocky, annoying, attractive, stubborn American to resist his demands. What he didn't expect was a challenge to his threat, an answer to his question, and a promise of a second meeting.

Alfred pushed himself off the wall and began to walk down the alley. “As I said before, I have somewhere to be. Maybe I’ll see you around, Ivan. Preferably when you’re not murdering me, that is.”

Was this man, Alfred, insane? Surely something was wrong with his head. Ivan's body didn't move as the other walked away. He didn't even mutter a response. His violet eyes watched the other leave, while his jaw tensed.

What just happened?

Without another word, he turned and silently opened the door to go back inside. It was getting late, and he had to get his sisters home. All he wanted was that distributor's name after all, and he got it. Any other action towards Alfred could be planned for another time. Besides, the other promised another meeting. Whether or not that would involve Ivan cutting the other's throat, he still wasn't sure. Either way, he felt oddly eager for their next encounter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan and Alfred's second meeting where they get to know each other more.

Alfred practically melted from the jitters and fear as he turned the corner, falling onto the sidewalk as a couple walked by, gawking at his erratic behavior. 

Did he really just tell off Ivan? He didn’t really tell him off, but he definitely stood up to him. And it felt good. It felt good to see those violet eyes flash with confusion and almost with a glint of delight. And he lived to tell the tale. That was the best part.

He’d have to do side jobs in the nightclub more often.

Alfred walked home, unable to keep the Russian off his mind. He kept replaying the scene over and over, each time noticing something different about the man’s accent or facial features. Each time he did, his heart beat harder, almost mimicking a heart attack. Was Ivan so powerful that he could kill by giving somebody a heart attack an hour after meeting him? It felt like it. He entered through the front door hanging off its hinges to his brother sleeping on the couch from exhaustion. He put his hand on his twin brother’s shoulder, gently waking him up. Matthew slowly sat up and rubbed his eyes before looking up quizzically at his brother. 

“I thought you had the day off today,” Alfred whispered. Matthew shook his head.

“We need the money,” he replied, his voice hoarse from just being awoken. 

“Not anymore,” Alfred said, tossing the wad of bills he had collected from both his side job and his main job with a devilish grin. 

Matthew blinked at the money and glanced back up at his brother, his expression twisting into one of betrayal and anger. He lunged forward and grabbed the money, fisting it tightly and shaking it in his brother’s face. “This is blood money, Alfred. What you’re doing is illegal.”

“Speaking of blood money,” Alfred responded, deviating the conversation topic. He’d heard this warning many times before, and he wasn’t going to talk about it again. “I met Ivan Braginski.”

“What?!” Matthew exclaimed, and Alfred shushed him due to their sleeping parents’ presence only a single thin wall away. 

“Mhm,” Alfred hummed. “And he wasn’t so terrible after all. Kind of funny, actually.”

Matthew’s worried expression darkened, and his hand flew up to his own chest to grip his tattered shirt. “Alfred, if you continue to associate with these people, your head will end up on our doorstep.”

“In the meantime,” Alfred ignored, “enjoy some extra food on me.”

The days crawled by slowly, mostly because each minute he was performing a job, Alfred was searching around to see if Ivan was there. Not out of fear but out of...expectation. He could admit to himself that he was excited to see the intimidating Russian, but not why. The reason why was much more complicated, and between the increasing number of deliveries and his own capability to process his emotions, he was not about to dive into that any time soon.

Alfred, Alfred, Alfred. The strange man seldom left Ivan's thoughts as he went through his week of routine work. The bright blue eyes, the soft smile, and the insane overconfidence were more difficult for the Russian to repress than usual. It was annoying, but also exciting.

Thankfully, Ivan's ability to work wasn't hindered by his distracting thoughts. Keeping such dark secrets was something he had grown accustomed to, after all, and the last thing he needed was some members of his 'group' questioning his abilities.

His status in the group was a sore spot for some, since he was considerably young to practically be second-in-command of the whole family. Some men had been working with his father for decades, and yet his son was basically handed high status and privileges.

Ivan himself didn't exactly consider himself 'lucky', though. The status was high-pressure, not to mention the years of 'training' he went through as a child. 'Making friends' wasn't much of an option, and there were many things that his father had him work on that were highly secretive. Not even his own sisters knew everything Ivan did.

But his sisters still tried to make him happier. They tried to make him socialize. Usually, it was pointless. But when they wanted to go out to the nightclub again, their brother oddly agreed without much of a fight.

Ivan ended up at the bar again, dressed in a light gray suit with a dark blue shirt and tie. His foot tapped anxiously to the music as he sipped his usual drink. What was he expecting, anyway? Alfred was an independent distributor who most likely worked across all of Manhattan. The chances of running into him again were slim, and Ivan had to remove him from his mind anyway. It was dangerous.

Alfred practically jumped with glee when the same person from the nightclub asked his boss to deliver some liquor as overtime, and when his boss told him the news, Alfred tried not to look too delighted. Nobody was delighted in this line of work, except maybe the psychos who love killing people. Like Ivan. Alfred, in all his excitement, could not forget that the Russian was dangerous and that he had only met him once, and the meeting wasn’t the most pleasant. So he kept reminding himself of that fact as he walked to the nightclub, showing off his boss’s picture as he walked through the two bodyguards and into the nightclub. He didn’t want to seem desperate, so he made a beeline for the client, handing him his liquor once again.

He glanced over his shoulder, trying to see through the mass of people and spot his beloved Russian. The only reason his focus was interrupted was because a girl tapped his shoulder.

“Care to dance with me?” she asked in a breathy voice, her eyes raking over his frame. 

Alfred didn’t engage in other activities, especially with women, on the job. But since this was a side job, he decided he could indulge himself for a few minutes. He offered his hand and took her to the dance floor, laughing along the way. They launched into the Lindy Hop alongside the jazz musicians starting up a new tune. 

As a louder swing song began, the Russian turned to observe his sisters, almost smiling as he watched them enjoy the dance. Natalya was really beginning to come out of her shell, and Katyusha wasn't nearly as anxious as she used to be. He was happy to see them happy. That was all that mattered. Until his eyes caught sight of the one who had been plaguing his mind for a week. 

As the American and his dance partner started getting into the harder part of the dance, Alfred unbuttoned the top of his collar and took off his suspenders as his body had heated up enough to bring out a thin layer of sweat on his brow, dipping the woman before bringing her back up. As he looked up from the pretty brunette, he locked eyes with the unmistakable Ivan, and his cheeks flushed even more than they were from the impromptu exercise.

Alfred. Alfred dancing happily with a woman. He was moving so smoothly, with such determination as if he did everything in his life with the same level of annoying overconfidence.

Maybe killing him was a good idea.

When their eyes met, Ivan struggled to keep his neutral expression. He wasn't sure if he wanted to smile or scowl, but either way, he was immediately uncomfortable. He turned back to the bar quickly, chewing on his lower lip with annoyance. If Alfred knew what was good for him, he'd leave the Russian alone.

Alfred brought the woman back up and kissed the back of her hand, to which she giggled.

“Thanks for the dance, darlin’,” he said. His eyes then switched from the woman to Ivan, the blueness of them lighting up with intrigue.

After a dance like that, it was only logical that Alfred needed to go to the bar. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself as he saddled up right next to Ivan, ignoring the seat and leaning over the counter. He wiped away the sweat beading on his forehead, and he buttoned the top of his shirt back up since it seemed improper to show off the top of his chest to the son of the most infamous family in the city.

“Whiskey on the rocks, please,” Alfred told the bartender, and then he craned his neck to look at Ivan subtly, acting as if he never saw him as he was coming over. He turned around and leaned his back and elbows against the counter, a smirk playing on his lips.

This was dangerous. Way too dangerous. Ivan did not look like he was in the mood to play right now. He never did, but especially now. Maybe Alfred was being too informal? He put his suspenders back on and gave them a snap.

“Hey, Ivan,” he greeted. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again. But here we are.”

No one ever sat next to Ivan at the bar. No one was brave—or stupid—enough to. The stools on either side of him were always left empty, but he told himself it's what he preferred. He hated coming out to this club, after all, so he wanted to be left alone. That's what he told himself, over and over again.

He gave no sign of acknowledgment as the other man entered his personal space, and kept his eyes on his drink as he slowly stirred it in the glass. Maybe Alfred had a death wish? Or, he was a spy for a rival family, and was ordered to try and get information out of Ivan? Or he was someone new, trying to make a name for himself in the business? One of those had to be the reason that Alfred was approaching him like this. Why else would he be so bold?

After taking another slow sip, he raised his eyes and looked straight forward, still refusing to directly acknowledge the other. "Usually, people prefer not to see me ever again," he replied in an emotionless tone. Killing him would be so easy. "I am assuming you will give me your last name as you promised at our last encounter?" 

He took another sip, then finally glanced at Alfred without turning his head. His face was glistening with sweat, and Ivan's eyes shifted to watch the other's chest expand with deep breaths. He could stab him between the ribs so quickly.

Alfred chuckled, wiping away the runaway streams of whiskey down his throat.

“You’re persistent,” he said, cracking a few of his knuckles instinctively. “Fine. I’m a man of my word.”

'Persistent'? Ivan was fairly sure the other was the truly persistent one in whatever one could call their interactions. Still, it was all very suspicious to him, and he hated how well Alfred was hiding his ulterior motives. There had to be ulterior motives involved, because why else would Alfred act in such a reckless way around a clearly dangerous person. He hated how interesting Alfred was becoming.

Alfred turned to the side and put his hand out for a handshake, staring straight into Ivan’s eyes. His confidence was through the roof, mostly because of Ivan’s voice. Ivan had only spoken five sentences to him, and yet Alfred wanted to make Ivan talk as much as possible in order to hear his low voice again. “Alfred F. Jones at your service. That’s all you’re getting out of me this time.”

He kept his hand in the air until it became clear that he wasn’t receiving a handshake anytime soon, so he turned back around so that he was leaning over the counter, finishing off his whiskey with a big swig before tapping the counter for another one. “Maybe next time we meet, I’ll tell you another tidbit about me. If you want.”

"You assume quite a lot, Jones," he remarked before finishing off his drink. When Alfred ordered another, so did the Russian. "If there is something you need from me, I would be more clear about it." 

Ivan couldn't remember the last time he had been so close to another man, especially one as attractive as Alfred. It was annoyingly delightful. "Because, if you want something from me..." His entire body finally turned to face the other, unwavering in his eye contact. "...I only make deals. If you want something from me, you will have to give me something in return." 

Alfred tried his hardest to not let the intimidation show on his face, and he adjusted his glasses after Ivan finished his little talk.

“I don’t want anything from you, Ivan,” Alfred said, not breaking eye contact, not even when he brought his drink to his lips. “A little explanation, maybe, as to why you were intrigued by me last week. I’m just having a fun time, pal.” 

He only broke eye contact to drink the rest of his liquor, tipping his head back. When he put his glass back, he looked up to Ivan from under his eyelashes, waiting for the Russian to react violently. But he knew he wouldn’t. “What do I need to give you in return for that, hm?”

Alfred crossed his arms, tipping his chin in an almost challenge. Yes, he wanted to know what he did that made Ivan practically barrel his way through the club. Was it because of the delivery? It was just a side job in a nightclub off everybody’s trading turf. It wasn’t for his boss—his boss just told him about it and wanted a small cut. So why were those purple eyes so trained on him?

The other's challenging stance and unwavering words yet again surprised the Russian. Sure, Ivan had originally pursued the other, but it was Alfred that apparently felt the desire to approach him a second time. Usually, anyone lucky enough to not have Ivan carry out a threat on them avoided him like the plague. But here was Alfred, claiming that he was 'just having fun'. It seemed ridiculous to him. 

Unless Alfred was...no. No, Ivan was alone in his depraved thoughts. It wasn't good to entertain such ideas. It would only hurt more.

"You think I was 'intrigued' by you?" he questioned, a little too quickly. His stoic features almost cracked for a moment. What reason did he have to hunt Alfred down that night? They made eye contact, and Ivan assumed...that he was a threat. Yes. He was a distributor that was unknown to Ivan, and it was always a good idea to know as many faces as possible. Especially Alfred's. 

"With the way you ran out of here once you saw me, I assumed you would cause trouble, so I wanted to be sure." While his words were smooth as usual, there was a hint of hesitation underneath. "Part of my job is to know people, and I did not know you."

Alfred smirked and raised his eyebrows, taking out a cigarette, putting it between his lips, and lighting it. He breathed it in, sucking the smoke between his teeth before sandwiching it between his index and middle finger. He blew out the smoke in front of him, the white cloud dissipating into the dark nightclub. 

“Well, you know me now, don’t you?” he asked, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Not too well. But we’ll work on that.”

He watched as the pretty woman from before passed by him, giving him a flirtatious wave before joining her friends off to the side. He waved to be polite, but once she was out of sight, he shook his head and put the cigarette between his lips again. 

“As for me running out,” he continued, returning his gaze to Ivan, “that was because I saw you as Ivan the Terrible. Now,” Alfred gave Ivan a once-over, his smile widening, “you’re a little more Ivan than terrible. Trust me, you’re still scary as hell, but I can see you as a human rather than a machine.”

Alfred took out the pack of cigarettes and held the open pack to Ivan, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Smoke, Slav?”

"You act like you know me so well." Ivan's tone was a little more defensive, clearly unhappy with the idea of the other believing to have figured him out.

Slowly, he turned his body back to the bar, sipping on his new drink. 'Annoyingly delightful' was the way he repeatedly described Alfred to himself, and it still applied at the moment. How can someone with such charming looks bother him so much? Well, he knew why, but that was a thought to toil over another time. Though, some of Alfred's words did strike a small nerve. 

The offer of a smoke, however, softened his demeanor just a little. Part of him began to wonder if befriending this odd man could be beneficial to him. Just for business. Nothing else.

Taking the cigarette, he muttered a small 'thanks' and pulled out an elegant lighter with a bear engraved on it. With a flick of his thumb, the cigarette was lit, and he took a drag while pocketing the lighter. "You were quite the dancer. Your partner was practically swooning," he commented, deciding to take a new approach to their interaction. Less about him, more about Alfred.

At Ivan’s remark, Alfred peered over at the girl mingling with her girlfriends, still sneaking glances over at him. He rolled his eyes. Was she ever going to get over him? It was one dance. He ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated that he accidentally made a girl fancy him. It was a lot harder for him to do the same.

“Er, she’s not my type,” Alfred mumbled, tapping the cigarette into the ashtray. A simple and vague explanation around the real reason as to why he wasn’t interested in her. Yeah, she was pretty. Any person could see that. Her face was nice, and her breasts were...bouncy. But while every guy would go buck wild over her and those things, he just turned back around to lean over the counter. He shook his head, trying to come up with an answer that would catch a homosexual's attention while confusing a man who was actually attracted to women. “I set my eyes on other...people.”

There, using a genderless term was adequate. Enough to pique any homosexual’s attention and enough to make any normal man brush it off as another response. Alfred flicked his eyes to Ivan, studying his usually completely unreadable face. Again, he couldn’t stop looking at that face. He looked between Ivan and the girl, and it was obvious which his heart preferred. But his heart was wrong, so he looked down at his drink and polished it off. He needed to leave. He couldn’t indulge in these thoughts anymore.

And yet, he stayed by Ivan’s side.

Now was the time for Ivan to study the other more closely. If he could make an ally out of Alfred—whatever that truly meant—then it would be worth the delightful annoyance. And yet, the other's reaction to his comment surprised him. The woman was clearly very attractive, and very much attracted to him, yet the blond didn't seem to care much. Odd.

He held the cigarette between two fingers, taking another slow drag before exhaling through his nose. Alfred's response made him tense up a little. Did it mean what he thought it meant? Or, was he just getting carried away with his thoughts? Maybe Alfred simply wasn't into a woman of her nature. Or maybe he wasn't as alone as he thought.

Before he could respond in any way, he felt a familiar hand on his back, opposite to Alfred. His younger sister stood there with a partial frown, her icy lavender gaze switching between Ivan and Alfred. 

" _Who's this fuckin' punk?_ " she asked in her native language. " _Is he bothering you?_ "

Turning to his sister, Ivan offered her a reassuring look. " _Natie, relax. He's... a potential ally,”_ he replied, knowing full-well that Alfred didn't understand a word. " _Did you come over here just to check on me? I'm pretty sure that's my job for you and Kat._ "

Natalya's eyes narrowed on Alfred for a moment, before shifting back to her brother. " _Well, no. I came because some guy wants to speak with you out in the alley. He mentioned it had to do with the Italians._ "

Alfred put out his cigarette into the ashtray, watching the exchange between them. He liked when Ivan turned serious. Alfred’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he turned away.

Ivan leaned back a little, tapping his cigarette on the ash gray. " _Alright, I'll handle it. Go back to Kat and I'll get you when I'm done._ " With that, Natalya nodded and left, but not before shooting Alfred another suspicious glare.

Turning back to his bar companion, the Russian looked almost apologetic. "I am sorry, Alfred, but I have to cut our conversation short. There is some business I need to handle."

At Ivan’s announcement of departure, Alfred felt his heart drop. They were finally getting to a good point where something could’ve...happened. His smile dropped into a solemn frown, and he broke his eye contact with Ivan as he ran his finger around the rim of the cup.

“Until next week then,” Alfred looked up and met Ivan’s eyes once more before laying a few bills on the counter, “Ivan Braginski.”

Alfred really seemed convinced they would meet again, and truthfully, Ivan wasn't against it. As suspicious as he was, the Russian couldn't deny the slight sense of comfortable warmth he felt near the other. Despite the younger blond's brash nature, there was something just a little endearing about it. "Until next week, Alfred F. Jones," he replied, managing to give a small smile.

Alfred thanked the bartender and took off, glancing over his shoulder once again at Ivan to savor that rare smile on the Russian’s face before going out the exit.

He stuck his hands in his pockets. It was foolish for him to think that anything would happen between him and Ivan. And it was dangerous. And disgusting. But it didn’t feel that way. So Alfred tried to calm his burning cheeks and focused on walking home.

Once the other disappeared from his sight, Ivan's expression darkened again as he turned to the back door. Out in the alley, a skittish man attempted to make a deal, offering wanted information about the Italian gang in exchange for obscene amounts of cash. The Russian toyed with the unfortunate man for a little while, verbally poking and prodding to see if anything the man said was worth his time.

It wasn't.

But luckily for the man, Ivan wasn't much in a mood for obscene violence. After giving the man a broken nose and bruised ribs, the Russian left the alley and slipped back inside the club, heading into the bathroom to wash the blood from his knuckles.

As he watched the reddened water drain away, he felt his mood darken even more. Alfred was most likely a homosexual like he was, but even if he was right about that, even if Alfred's interest in him was attraction...why would he want someone with such darkness in him? Why would someone as charming as Alfred ever care for a violent brute like him? There had to be ulterior motives at play. That had to be it. It almost hurt to think otherwise.


	3. Chapter 3

Once his hands were visibly clean, Ivan stared at himself in the mirror as he contemplated the interaction with Alfred. Well, there wasn't anything wrong with just talking to him, right? Once again, he rationalized it by thinking of the bright-eyed American as a potential ally of some kind. 

He was a travelling, independent distributor, so maybe he could be useful?

There was a thought to possibly offering Alfred a job working directly with him and the Braginski family. He could give Alfred much better pay as well as protection. However, that also meant the younger blond would be more dangerously involved in the criminal world. The thought of Alfred in danger made Ivan uncomfortable, for some reason.

Did he want Alfred around more, or did he want him safe?

Why did he even care so much?

After a heavy sigh, Ivan decided not to dwell on it for the time being, and left the bathroom to go back to the bar. His sisters would probably want to head home soon anyway.

The night ended uneventfully, and once he and his sisters were home, Ivan reported to his father to inform him about the skittish man with no good information. His father questioned why Ivan didn't kill the man, since his son was always so proactive about tying loose ends, but Ivan gave a vague excuse. Despite being displeased, his father let it go and dismissed the other, stating Ivan had a number of tasks to do the next day.

In the morning, he went about his usual routine: work out, breakfast, shower, and smoke, then report to his father for the daily tasks. It was a transit day, meaning a number of fresh shipments were coming in for delivery to the family's speakeasies. With all the deliveries happening, it was easy for competitors to slip through their territory, either to make easier deliveries, or to try and make their own deals with businesses.

Much to his dismay, Ivan was put on duty as one of the 'guard dogs', which meant he would be stationed at a back-alley intersection to inspect delivery drivers passing through. To him, it was a boring job meant for an underling, but his father had insisted on it.

_ “Even as the boss, one must be able to perform any and all necessary tasks, at all levels,” _ his father had said to him earlier in the day.

Ivan was fairly sure that his father only ordered him to the job because of the weak excuse he gave the night before.

So, Ivan ended up on a corner of a common delivery route with one of the newer members of the gang. Boris, a heavy-set man with the intelligence of a goldfish, was Ivan's partner for the day, and neither of them were very happy about it. But, they had their orders, and only one Tommy gun to share if any trouble came their way. To stop any trucks from passing by without permission, a make-shift barrier was made from a large plank set on two rock-filled barrels. Once the Russians approved of the driver, they would move the plank.

_ "You really think some idiot is gonna try to sneak through our turf with a delivery?" _ Boris remarked in Russian, casually sitting on the wooden crate that housed their machine gun.

Ivan, who was leaning against a nearby wall, shrugged as he pulled out a fresh cigarette.  _ "It's happened before. It'll happen again. _ " Once his cigarette was lit, he tossed the pack to the other as an offer. " _ Stop thinking about 'what ifs' and stay focused on the present. _ "

After the second encounter with a bloodthirsty villain that left Alfred breathless, he was back on the job, receiving orders from his boss.

“These cases are going to Manhattan,” his boss said while chewing a toothpick, motioning to the loaders piling the cases into the truck.

“But, boss,” Alfred stuttered. He never stood up to his boss, but this was ridiculous. “That’s Braginski territory.”

“They don’t know you,” the boss said. “Just keep a low profile and you’ll be good. I’m not tryin’ to start a turf war here, but we’re losin’ money to those bozos.”

Alfred was conflicted. First, he was scared that he would be in the middle of a deadly war and get caught in the crossfire. Second, he was overjoyed because he might actually see his Russian friend again. Well, not friend. Acquaintance. Somebody he was really interested in. His excitement over seeing Ivan the Terrible won over, and he nodded obediently, getting into the truck and driving to Manhattan.

He followed the route that his boss gave him, avoiding certain alleyways that were policed by the rival gang. He maneuvered his way around empty back alleys and busy streets, following the map that was spread across the steering wheel.

However, as he pulled into an alley, he saw two men leaning against the wall, and they pushed themselves off when they spotted him coming in. When he got a closer look, one of them was Ivan.

_ Shit shit shit shi— _

What the hell was Ivan doing here? He was part of the Braginski clan, yes, but Alfred imagined him more up the flagpole rather than a lackey guarding a back alley. Didn’t he have a shiny desk in his fifty-room mansion to carry out tax fraud instead of being stuck here? 

" _ —I'm just sayin', the Italians are fuckin' terrible, but they've got pretty good style. Have you seen those suits? I wonder if they get them shipped in from Italy... _ " Boris ranted on, having been chatting away for the past half-hour. And for every minute he spoke, Ivan imagined another creative way to kill him. Of all the fucking idiots to be stuck with.

The sound of an approaching truck removed Ivan from his homicidal thoughts. Finally, something to do other than listen to a boneheaded fool prattle on for hours. " _ Shut up. We've got a truck to check. _ " Ivan snapped, elbowing the other. " _ Get the gun, but don't do anything unless I tell you to, got it? _ "

However, as the truck came closer, Ivan felt his stomach drop to his boots. What the hell was Alfred doing here? He knew the other was a distributor, but why would he be foolish enough to take a delivery job through Braginski territory? But, then again, he was foolish enough to go face-to-face with Ivan two times, so it wasn’t too much of a surprise. 

Alfred looked in his side mirrors. There was a clear path for him to reverse, but they would probably take his reversal as a challenge and start shooting at him. He thought that he and Ivan had bonded over their two previous meetings, but Ivan was a Braginski and a mobster over all else and Alfred was a man he met twice and had shared twenty minutes total of conversation with. He wasn’t anything special to Ivan. 

Boris already had the Tommy gun out and resting casually in his hands before Alfred said a word, and Ivan began to deliberate on how to handle this very complex situation. Well, as long as Alfred didn't mention anything about them knowing each other, maybe he could—

“Hey, guys,” Alfred called out as he leaned out the window. “Can I get by? I have a delivery to make soon.”

He held out both hands to prove he was unarmed, but that was most definitely not true, and he could tell by their unmoving expressions that they didn’t believe it. He flicked his eyes to Ivan and smiled. “So we meet a third time. I’m starting to think you run into me on purpose, Mr. Braginski.”

" _ This American punk knows you, Ivan? _ " Boris raised a brow, staring at his fellow Russian. It was truly a wonder how he hadn't killed Alfred yet.

Ivan sighed, stepping to put himself a bit in between the American and the machine gun. " _ Relax, Boris. I've got this, _ " he said, then turned to the truck. It was the first time he ever saw Alfred in the daylight, and his bright blue eyes looked warm, and a little anxious. His golden hair almost glistened in the sun, looking oh-so soft. But then Ivan noticed how tired Alfred truly looked, with his sunken-in cheeks and veiny eyebags that were visible thirty feet away. If only he could help with whatever Alfred was struggling with...

"I will admit, it seems like quite an odd coincidence, Mr. Jones," he replied in English. The expression he gave the other was a little softer, and maybe almost concerned. "Though, coincidence or not, this is not the luckiest situation for you to be in. However, we can work this out if you can just be honest with me right now." 

He ran his gloved hand through his hair, glancing back at the other Russian before looking directly at Alfred. "Are you just passing through with your delivery, or are you here to try and make business?" 

Did Ivan...smile at him? No, but his eyes were definitely less emotionless than before. And was he giving Alfred a chance to explain himself? Maybe all the rumors about Ivan weren’t completely true. But Alfred’s focus was changed as Ivan ran his hand through his silvery hair, and Alfred swallowed the lump that had magically appeared in his throat. Ivan almost looked...beautiful. No. Alfred shook the dangerous idea out of his head, looking down so Ivan wouldn’t see him staring at him.

He sighed and took off his jacket which contained his gun, getting out of the truck slowly, flinching slightly as the other Russian swung his Tommy up. Alfred hopped onto the ground with his hands up, his white button-down straining against the movement since he couldn’t afford a new shirt that fit.

“Calm down,” Alfred said, holding open his hands. “I’m unarmed.” That was mostly true, except for the sheathed knife that was hidden by his crotch. When his boss suggested it, Alfred freaked out, but at this moment, he was thankful. 

His eyes swung over to Ivan, and a small smirk appeared on his lips. “You can search me if you want.” He winked, subtle enough to be easily explained away as him blinking but conspicuous enough for Ivan to catch it.

The other Russian was about to speak before Alfred loudly groaned, smacking the side of his truck and pointing up to the giant painting of a tomato. “Listen, these tomatoes aren’t going to last all day. It’s getting hot in there, and if they’re hot, my boss won’t like it, and I won’t get paid. You want that to happen?”

Alfred pointed at the words above the tomato which said ‘Pop’s Tomatoes,’ a truck that his boss stole just for this moment. But Alfred was illiterate, having to skip school to help his family. So he dropped his hand and turned back to the other Russian, keeping an eye on Ivan.

“I’m just passing through, Mrs. Grundy. You can check in the back if you want, but I don’t know why you’d do that. Listen, if I don’t get out of here in two minutes, these tomatoes are going to spoil, and your boss, whoever that is, will hear about it. You really—“

Alfred continued on his rant for quite long, pretending to be oblivious to who they were from. He clapped his hands, pointed, facepalmed, everything to get them off his back. Anytime the other Russian opened his mouth to interrupt, Alfred continued, bringing up anything that he could think of to bore the murderous skepticism out of him.

As Alfred began to ramble on, Ivan found himself surprisingly amused by the other. Rambling was one thing that the Russian was always so easily annoyed by, but Alfred, while clearly nervous, had a voice that Ivan felt drawn to. Not to mention that sly 'body search' comment that almost made Ivan's lip twitch.

However, Boris was the one finding himself annoyed, and after being interrupted a third time, he raised the gun to finally quiet the blabbering American. 

Alfred immediately shut up once the other Russian interrupted and pointed his gun at his chest. 

" _ I think we should just kill him. He's clearly lying, and besides, I wanna get some target practice in, _ " Boris grumbled, squinting through one eye to get a clear shot to Alfred’s forehead. 

" _ No, Boris, _ " Ivan snapped, quickly turning to the other Russian as his expression went cold once again. " _ This is a guy I know from the food market a few blocks from here. He's... stupid, but harmless. _ "

Boris didn't turn his gun away from Alfred. " _ Well, if he's so stupid then we at least need to teach him some kinda lesson." _ His finger itched near the trigger. " _ Probably a fuckin' fag anyway. _ "

Ivan's hand snatched the barrel of the gun so quickly that the other Russian jumped back from shock. With a low growl, Ivan yanked the gun barrel down and towards him, pulling Boris forward. Without hesitation, Ivan's other hand balled into a fist and shot out, connecting with Boris's sternum. With the wind knocked out of him, Boris stumbled back, nearly falling to the ground and dropping the gun. " _ W-what the fuc— _ "

" _ When I give you an order, you  _ will _ follow that order, understand? _ " he snarled, then leaned in to grab the other by the collar. " _ How  _ dare  _ you assume that you can disregard my words just because I'm working with you on the same low-level job. _ " 

He pulled him closer to his face. " _ Next time you talk over me, or feel like you can do whatever you want, I will cut off your tongue and make you eat it. _ "

By then, Boris was nearly cowering with fear, and Ivan released him with an aggravated huff. He turned slowly, not towards Alfred, but towards the barrier. Without a second thought, he went over and rolled up his sleeves, revealing a number of unique tattoos on his forearms as he lifted the plank off of the barrels and set it aside. 

Even though Ivan was probably threatening to kill the man, his face was so attractive, his hair falling into his eyes and his lips growing moist from yelling at him. Alfred stared at his lips for way too long, and when Ivan got up and walked to the barrier, his heart almost burst at the sight of the Russian’s tattooed and quite large forearm. He needed to stop running into Ivan or else he’d do something that he’d regret for the rest of his life. 

"Just go, Jones," Ivan finally said to the flustered American, looking up at him with a slightly softer expression. "We would not want your tomatoes to spoil."

Alfred, in his daze, walked back to the truck, but he didn’t leave without saying, “That was hot.”

  
  


He immediately cleared his throat once he realized what he said, trying to make sure Ivan didn’t hear it. He covered up his heinous comment by saying, “Thanks for that, buddy. Me and my tomatoes thank you.”

Alfred was as red as his tomatoes from his previous comment, and he waved at Ivan as he got into his truck. As he drove past the barrier, he stopped and leaned out to tell Ivan for a third time, “‘Til we meet again. Maybe without violence next time.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Ivan decided to pretend he didn't hear the rather unexpected comment. But even though he didn't visibly react, it was hard to ignore the thoughts that popped back into his head. Was that some kind of flirting? Unless Alfred just acted that charming to get on his good side. After all, he was rather charming with that girl on the dance floor.

As the truck rolled up to him, his violet eyes once again met those beautiful blues. "You certainly know how to stall in a tough situation, Jones," he remarked, then reached into his pocket for a moment. "But, here, use this if you need to drive through our territory again, but do not show it to anyone else or even mention you have it." 

As he spoke, he handed Alfred a black business card, with silver art of a growling bear on one side. "If you get caught with it, eat it so it cannot be found." His tone and expression were deadly serious.

After a moment, he sighed and relaxed his features, then handed Alfred a twenty-dollar bill. "Try to stay out of trouble, okay? I would hate to be bored at the nightclub again."

Alfred leaned down from the truck and took the card. He looked at it, admiring the sleek design. He nodded at Ivan’s instructions and tucked it into his jacket. He then saw the bill Ivan was holding out, and he audibly gasped. That was more than enough to cover their rent and food, and maybe fix some of the windows. He didn’t want to accept it because it was pity money, but he knew that it would be foolish not to. He took it gratefully, giving Ivan a beaming smile as he put it away in his chest pocket.

“Thank you,” he said earnestly. “And I promise, trouble won’t find me. I’ll be hidden in that nightclub of yours. See you there.”

Alfred saluted, giving Ivan one last look before he pressed onward, the truck shooting forward and turning out of the alley and onto the street where he was supposed to make the delivery.

As Alfred was making the delivery, his mind was swimming with all sorts of thoughts. The scene from last night, Ivan’s face, how he shouldn’t be dreaming about Ivan’s face. He unloaded the boxes labeled with words that Alfred only assumed related to tomatoes to cover for the liquor on the inside. The man helped him carry it into the shop, giving him a stack of bills once they were finished. Alfred nodded and went back on his way, driving back to the warehouse for more deliveries.

As the truck drove out of sight, Ivan sighed heavily, then went back to his position with a now-shaken Boris. Rolling down his sleeves and fixing his cuffs, he looked at the other with contempt. " _ If you mention any of this to anyone, I will hurt you so bad you'll wish you died as a child, understand? _ " 

The other Russian nodded quickly in agreement, then cleared his throat as he pulled himself together.

The rest of the day went by quietly as Ivan tried and failed over and over again to remove Alfred from his thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After another encounter, Ivan can't stand the tension between them and confronts Alfred about his intentions.

The time had come yet again for Alfred to go to the nightclub. This time, he searched in his father’s and brother’s closets to see if they had anything nice that they hadn’t sold to cover rent. He found a dark red dress shirt hidden deep in his brother’s closet—who exactly Matthew was hiding it for, he had a good idea—and paired it with black slacks. His dog tags fell between his collar bones, which were exposed since the shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his torso. While he was tucking in the front of his shirt, he kept on wondering why he was dressing up like this. To impress Ivan? To intimidate him? To...seduce? 

No. Alfred walked out, throwing on his coat. But the smile he had on while thinking of Ivan stayed on as he walked to the nightclub once more. The walk to the club was quick since he quite literally could not wait to see that intriguing, taciturn, and comedic Russian again. Once he reached the bouncers, they recognized his charming smile and waved him in, and he bounced inside. 

Ivan’s sister's weekly outing came once again, and his usual protests were noticeably weaker. He still felt rather conflicted about everything involving his new American friend, but at the very least, he had decided that killing Alfred was no longer an option. After all, the perfect opportunity had presented itself when Alfred drove through their territory, and instead of quickly disposing of him, Ivan gave him a Braginski family card. Maybe Ivan was the crazy one?

Regardless, his sisters were a little suspicious, so as much as he wanted to dress a little differently, it was out of the question. So, he dressed in his usual light gray suit, choosing a deep purple shirt and tie along with beige suspenders. However, the one thing he did differently was slick back his hair with some gel. After looking himself over in the mirror for a few minutes, he decided he was good enough and went out to meet his sisters.

At the club, he sat in his usual seat, scotch in hand as he watched his sisters jokingly flirt with boys just to get a free drink or dance. His sisters were wonderful women, but they were both trained similarly to Ivan. Their father had insisted on it, since all Braginskis had to be strong and cunning, no matter the gender. If only his father was open-minded about other topics...

Alfred snapped his suspenders as he waited in line like a small child, and he reached down to his back pocket to make sure the Braginski card was still there. The card was a Hail Mary, and he would protect it with his life.

Same with the twenty-dollar bill. When he showed it to his parents, they cried and prayed and kissed the bill. They didn’t question where it came from, but Matthew regarded it with suspicion, but that quickly ended when they had a grand turkey dinner and were able to fix the broken windows that brought in a terrible draft every evening. 

He spotted Ivan’s sister, the one that gave him a cold look, dancing next to another woman, probably Ivan’s other sister. Did everybody in the Braginski family look almost the same? He gave them a small smile when they looked over at him, not wanting to interrupt their flirting with other men. If his sisters were here, Ivan was, too. So Alfred made a beeline to the bar, and sure enough, there was Ivan, nursing a drink as usual.

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, adjusting his glasses and straightening his shirt. He didn’t question why he was getting gussied up because he knew the reason, and he didn’t want to dwell on it.

Alfred swaggered over to Ivan, brushing his hand over his shoulder to get his attention.

“Hey,” Alfred said with his usual grin. “Fourth time’s the charm, isn’t it? Maybe there won’t be violence involved this time.”

When his awaited guest approached, Ivan restrained himself from reacting, instead keeping his stoic demeanor for the time being.

"One can only hope," he replied without looking at the other. No violence? He almost wanted to laugh. Violence followed him, even when he didn't want to.

Alfred took off his coat and set it on the stool next to him, sitting down and waving over the bartender. “Vodka, please,” he asked, giving Ivan a sly look. “Honoring the motherland, hm?”

As Alfred ordered his drink, the Russian finally had the courage to turn and face his companion. It was undeniable to him now that Alfred was a homosexual as he looked him over since he clearly dressed up for this occasion. And he looked damn good. Amazing, actually. And he found it more difficult than usual not to stare. _Goddammit, Alfred._

When the vodka came by, Alfred shot it back quickly, wincing at the nail polish remover taste. “Oof,” he groaned, pounding on his chest to get the liquor to go down easier. “You guys sure make it powerful.”

"Well, we Russians do admire powerful things," he remarked in a lighter tone. 

Was that a joke he actually tried to make? 

Alfred chuckled at Ivan’s remark, continuing to play with his dog tags as a coping mechanism for his nervousness. He downed another shot, trying to relax, wincing at the taste yet again.

"So, how has your day been, Jones?" An attempt at a normal conversation. That's what normal people did, right? Asked about each other's days? Ivan still tried to keep up a sense of formality, but his resolve was beginning to crack. 

His eyes shot up at Ivan’s question. Wow, no threats or negative language from him. That was a start.

“It was busy, thanks for asking,” he replied. There, a normal response to a normal question. It was as if they were two normal men. But Alfred wasn’t, and he couldn’t quite yet get a read on Ivan.

Alfred only then noticed how attractive the Russian looked when he took in the sight of him, just as the Russian had done to him. Although he was much too occupied admiring Ivan’s appearance to notice the Russian’s lingering eyes on his body. With his gray-blond hair slicked back and the purple shirt matching his eyes, Alfred couldn’t keep his eyes off him. He tried to look away to order another shot, but all he could do was tap on the bar while still taking in the Russian’s suit tight against his body. Alfred fumbled with his dog tags nervously, the clinking sound of them enough to make him look down at the floor and break his stare.

_I need to stop before this gets too serious. What am I even doing here? I need to leave. I need to make up an excuse and never see him again._

But Alfred stayed put because he knew. He knew that if it wasn’t Ivan, it would be another man that crossed his path, looking at him for one too second long that would cause Alfred’s heart to jump into his mouth.

_I could’ve been stuck on somebody less dangerous, probably. Or somebody who isn’t the rival of my boss. That would’ve been nice._

But Alfred liked danger. And he liked Ivan.

“People are getting antsy for their liquor as this thing goes on. But it brings in the moolah,” he continued after staring at Ivan for an uncomfortable amount of time. 

He flashed a smile, but then he looked down at his dog tags, chewing his bottom lip before looking back up at meeting Ivan’s eyes. “I never thanked you properly for that money you gave me. You have...no idea how much it helped.”

Alfred reached into his coat next to him and pulled out a couple of bills he got as a tip from the pretty daughter of a bar owner, tossing them onto the counter in front of Ivan. “And for the card, too. I was expecting either getting beaten up or murdered by you.” Alfred stopped himself. “Half-expected.”

He smiled, this time a small, soft smile. “I’m glad the other half was right. You really stuck your neck out for me. So, yeah. Thanks.”

Alfred cleared his throat, taking yet another shot. “So how was your day?” he asked quickly, not giving the Russian time to respond to his gratuitous rant. 

It felt nice to have something that resembled a normal conversation. Ivan couldn't remember the last time he just casually chatted with someone other than his sisters. Everyone else he spoke with either acted professionally for a business deal or was cowering in fear from his threats. And talking with his father was... something else.

Alfred's words of gratitude did make him soften a little more. He helped Alfred out because—well, just because. Unfortunately, he still felt some suspicion though. Alfred just seemed too perfect.

He sipped his drink slowly, then paused when he was asked about his own day. How honest was he supposed to be?

"Um, well... I, uh..." For the first time since they met, he wasn't so confident with his words, and he actually turned his gaze away to think. "I mostly did boring paperwork today for the business..." he trailed off, deciding to chug down the rest of his drink.

When the glass was empty, he suddenly looked very serious again. He couldn't handle it anymore. "I am going to go out to the back alley. Wait a few minutes, then meet me out there."

And before Alfred could even respond, Ivan was up and gone, casually making his way to the back door.

Alfred stared after him in confusion as he went out the exit to the back alley, and he scratched his head as he took another shot.

He was about to ask for another one when a woman sat down next to him, and before he could object, she ran her fingers over his forearm with a smirk.

“Hi, sugar,” she said, her eyelids low. Many girls have given Alfred this look in hopes of wooing him. He only went along with it because he felt like he had to.

“Somebody was sitting there,” Alfred said in a bored tone. Usually, he would’ve been nicer, but Ivan could come back any minute and see her there.

“Oh, I won’t be sitting here long,” she replied. “I was wondering if you wanted to dance.”

“I—“ Alfred was about to protest before his insecurity got the best of him. He already looked like a giant pansy, standing out around the rest of the men wearing suits or less flashy clothing. He succumbed to it, nodding and taking her arm as she led him to the dance floor. They began to dance just as the band started up a new song, and they launched into a swing dance. He kept looking at the bar longingly, both to make sure nobody messed with his coat and to see if Ivan had returned. He had said to meet him out in a few minutes, right? Perhaps…

Once the band finished the song, Alfred bowed politely to the woman, who kept on pawing at his sleeve to get him to dance more. He shook his head, and, looking up at the clock on the wall, decided it had been long enough since Ivan had left him. He walked toward the alley, the clicking sound of the heels of his holey Oxfords got louder and louder the further he walked away from the dance floor, his hand slowly reaching out to push open the door. 

Out in the alley, a trashcan flew across the pavement and smashed against the opposite wall after it had been forcefully kicked. Next was a stack of thin wooden crates, which splintered and cracked from the force of unhindered punches. Ivan wasn't handling things well, to put it simply. But, after a few minutes of destroying garbage cans and other innocent inanimate objects, he had tired himself out enough to think more clearly.

He had worked so hard to repress and push away parts of himself over the years. After all, it only gave him trouble. And yet Alfred was undoing all of it.

“Ivan?” 

The same man who had been torturing his thoughts since day one appeared, just like Ivan told him to. It really was his own fault at this point. But he couldn’t help but hurt himself by stealing those blue eyes and having them solely on himself. 

When Alfred saw the tipped-over garbage can and the broken crates, he slipped outside and closed the door behind him. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Maybe killing Alfred was the best option. But he had already set himself against that. Well, it wouldn't be the first time he second-guessed himself. But part of him knew he was just making up excuses for everything else going on. He thought he could suppress certain parts of himself until they disappeared. He thought he had learned from his past mistakes.

He thought he could be content with being alone.

The sound of Alfred's voice made him freeze in his tracks, and there was a moment where he considered running away like a pathetic little pansy. But, he managed to look up, giving the other yet another unreadable expression. Then, his violet eyes shifted from the right to the left, checking to be sure the alley was clear before suddenly moving towards the other.

Just as their first encounter, it only took him a few long strides to close the gap between them, except this time, he pinned Alfred against the alley wall. Pinning both of his wrists against the brick wall in a steel-like grip, his gaze never left the other's. 

Alfred made a fearful noise in his throat as Ivan barreled toward him, and he let out an ‘oof’ as some of the wind was knocked out of him when he crashed against the wall. His jaw clenched as he looked up to meet Ivan’s eyes, much closer than ever before. Ivan was so close that he could feel his breath on his face.

"I need you to be honest with me, Alfred." Ivan’s voice was low and almost shaky. It was also the first time he used the other's first name. "Absolutely honest. I need to know your truthful answer to my question." It was more of a plea than a threat. 

"Why did you come to meet me here tonight?"

Staring down at the other with his unrelenting gaze, Ivan felt his stomach twist as he waited for the answer. He didn't know what he wanted to hear, but more than anything, he just wanted Alfred to be honest. If he was just a spy, fine. If he was just someone looking for business, fine. But he just hated lies. His whole life had been built upon deceit of many kinds, to and from every single person in his life. Even his sisters. He knew, deep in his heart that they would betray him if they had to. And the worst part was that he knew that he couldn't do the same.

He was weak, but he lied to himself that he was strong.

Alfred’s eyes widened. Two paths in front of him diverged: one was to tell the truth, which was because he was stuck on Ivan and possibly wanted to kiss him. And do a lot more, of course, but kissing was a good step. Two, lie and tell him that he just wanted a friend.

He was about to open his mouth to lie, a default to all his friends who questioned him too closely and to himself, but the look of conviction in Ivan’s eyes made him change his path.

“I’m...stuck on you, Ivan,” he admitted quietly, and he only noticed how tight Ivan’s grip was on his wrists. He licked his lips and looked down in shame at the floor. “I like you. I really like you. I don’t know if you’re a homosexual, but if you’re not, I’ll just disappear.” 

Alfred bit his bottom lip, closing his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see Ivan’s expression change. He created courage to continue, taking in a deep breath and opening his eyes again, slowly turning them up to meet Ivan’s violet ones. God, they were beautiful. He would do anything to stare into them again. “You don’t have to kill me, you just won’t ever see me again. But I like you, Ivan Braginski. That’s the truth.”

So it was true, then. Alfred wasn't lying. Ivan wasn't making things up in his head from some sick hopeful place. This beautiful human, whom he had pinned against a wall, admitted to being attracted to him.

Ivan thought back to the second time they spoke, where he stated that he only gave back equal to what he received. Well, Alfred certainly gave him a fair amount.

When Alfred looked back up at him, Ivan closed the space between their faces, mashing their lips together with apologetic vigor. He tasted the vodka and smoke, feeling intoxicated from the pent-up emotions cracking through. He really did like Alfred.

Alfred could not prepare himself for the warmth and feel of his lips on his own. It was a passionate and rough kiss, and once Alfred caught his bearings, he immediately kissed back. He had been fantasizing about this moment for too long to be considered normal—well, fantasizing about men at all was not normal—and he wasn’t about to waste a single second. 

He leaned forward, trying to get as close to Ivan as possible, trying to breathe and taste and feel everything he could because who knew when he would get the chance again. He gently loosened Ivan’s grip from his wrists, and when they were loose, he brought his hands to the side of Ivan’s head. He caressed Ivan’s jawline, making his way up and massaging his temples and cheeks with his thumbs. He ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair, loosening the hair and letting it fall into his eyes.

He separated from Ivan just to whisper, out-of-breath, “You look sexy with your hair down.” He paused, and then said, his voice hoarse, “You look sexy anyway.”

Fairly overwhelmed with the emotions and affection, Ivan could barely think anymore as he let his lips move so naturally with the other's. It felt right. So right. It was almost painful how right it all felt. Alfred's breathy words barely even registered with him, but he knew that he liked it. Yes, he liked it. He knew that he liked it. And he liked Alfred.

But, for him, it was still all a little much, a little fast, which left him unsure what to do with his own hands. Eventually, they found themselves at Alfred's waist, holding him closely because he never wanted to let go.

Alfred returned his lips to Ivan’s in desperate fervor, their lips dancing a violent dance before he trailed his kisses down his neck rapidly, trying to make up for all the lost time he had when he was busy hooking up with women instead of men.

Ivan’s grip on the other's shirt tightened as his lips moved to his neck, feeling a shiver travel up his spine with excitement. Excitement for what? He didn’t know; all he knew was that he was lost in the moment, his breath hitching in his throat and his eyes heavily lidded. 

Alfred’s hands were halfway up Ivan’s shirt when he heard a noise, and his head snapped up from Ivan’s neck hard enough to hit against the wall, and before he could react to the pain, fear rose in his chest.

“What was that?” he whispered. He practically whimpered at the moment being interrupted, but that was the least of his worries. He and Ivan could be murdered if somebody found them together.

With all the thoughts and emotions racing through his mind, it took Ivan a moment to realize what had happened. Before checking to see if Alfred was alright, he turned his head to see two men emerging from the darkness.

"Well, well, whadda we got here?" the one growled, brandishing a knife. "A couple'a pansy fags.” The man’s eyes widened with realization, and a devilish grin grew on his thin lips. “And one of 'ems a Braginski. Damn, so their family’s fucked up in more ways than one."

"We were just lookin' for someone to mug, but I think we found somethin' much better," the other man smirked, revealing a knife of his own.

Ivan blinked, letting his arms drop from his companion as his full body turned towards the men. With all of his emotions running high and wild, he absolutely wasn't in the mood for something like this. "Stay behind me," he muttered to Alfred, before moving himself forward to face the men.

When Alfred saw the glint of a knife under the dim streetlight, he flinched. He wasn’t new to knives, but just the sight of them still hurt. He looked to Ivan as he gave him instructions to stay behind him, and even though the situation was terrifying, he felt safe. He was with Ivan the Terrible.

Alfred was a fighter, that much was certain. It was clear he knew the streets and did what he had to in order to survive. But Ivan didn't have to just 'survive'. He was raised with much higher standards in mind. Ivan was a killer.

Still, even with Alfred beyond apprehensive about taking a life, he picked up his coat and dug for his gun, taking it out and pointing it toward the men. He took off the safety slowly, squinting an eye to get a good shot. His finger itched the trigger, and he nodded toward Ivan in a show of support.

They were going to take these guys down together if it came down to it, whether Ivan liked it or not.

While Alfred thought he and Ivan looked threatening enough together to send the two men running with their tails between their legs, they only jeered more.

“Ha, whatchu gonna do, cake-eater? Huh? Fuck me in the ass ‘til I pass out?” one yelled, loud enough for any passerby to hear, which made Alfred’s shoulders crumple in shame.

“Looks like they were about to do just that, man,” the other one laughed, walking closer and waving around his knife. “In a back alley, too. You guys sure are frisky.”

“Too bad we caught you,” the first one said. “Now we hafta kill you.”

Oh, Ivan absolutely wasn't in the mood for this. Every scummy word that leaked from the men's mouths only added fuel to fire of the Russian's growing rage. He fully straightened up, rolling his shoulders back before cracking his gloved knuckles. He was armed with his own revolver, as well as a knife tucked into his sock, but he wouldn't need either of them.

No, the emotional roller coaster of the past hour was enough for him, and now he was pissed.

He noticed Alfred holding the gun and nodding in support, and Ivan nodded in reply. Knowing he had backup was nice. Knowing that Alfred cared was nice. Knowing that anyone cared was nice.

The men jeered at them again, and without hesitation the Russian stormed forward. Before the one man could raise his knife, Ivan grabbed him by the shirt collar and practically threw him against the opposite wall. It wouldn't keep that man down for long, but Ivan didn't want to have two men on him at once.

The other man quickly swung at him, and Ivan backstepped out of the way. Then, he latched onto the other's hand that held the knife and yanked him forward so his free hand could grab the man's neck. With his grip steeled, Ivan turned and pinned the man to the nearest wall, slowly choking him out. 

"You would like to know about ass-fucking, yes? Then how about I take that knife of yours and shove it so far up your ass that I can scrap your shit-filled colon clean."

All Alfred heard was his heart pounding in his ears, but his fear was quickly replaced by determination when he saw the other man creep up behind Ivan.

Alfred launched forward, tucking his gun into his waistband as he grabbed the man by the neck and wrestled him to the ground, straddling him as he punched and punched and punched. He had just cracked the man’s nose when the man got the upper hand, taking Alfred’s moment of hesitation after breaking his nose to flip him to the ground, pinning him and punching him in return. He then got out his knife, and without any hesitation, he slit a line on Alfred’s arm. Even though it was shallow, it still brought forth blood and pain. Then, without warning, the man lifted the knife up, the blade glinting in the dim streetlight with fresh blood, and plunged it into Alfred’s torso. The American managed to shift out of the way, but it still ripped through his side, a pool of blood immediately spurting out of his waist and gathering underneath him. 

He cried out and went to feel how deep it was, but he couldn’t worry with such trifles when the man was working up to another stab. He finally gained his strength back and hugged the man by the waist, lifting him over his shoulder and suplexing him swiftly. He heard a sickening crack against the pavement, and when he turned around, he saw the mess he made. The man was still alive, groaning and holding his head. He stood up but tripped over himself from the blood he lost, the blood barely noticeable in his wine-colored shirt. 

Thankfully the shirt wasn’t ruined, but Alfred couldn’t focus on that as he doubled over and fell back, pushing himself into a sitting position before finally collapsing onto the ground. His breathing was shallow, and he got out his gun just in case any more men showed up to kill them. He desperately tried to stay awake, knowing that if he closed his eyes, he might be gone for good. So he stared up at the navy sky, listening to the sounds of fighting coming from Ivan and wondering why he gave in to his desires. It would only ruin his life further. And yet, everything in that moment felt right. 

Ivan, on the other hand, was left unscathed as he pounded the man’s head into a mess of brain matter and blood into the wall, his face completely smashed with bone and cartilage sticking out of his bruised and battered skin. He grimaced at the mess he had made upon himself, but when he noticed the eerie silence over his shoulder, the mess could not have mattered less. He turned, and when he set his eyes upon Alfred’s mutilated body in a pool of his own blood, his knees weakened to the point of him stumbling and falling onto the concrete.

“Jones...no,” he whispered, crawling over to Alfred’s body, his eyes glassy as he stared up at the sky. His breathing was erratic, his chest heaving and his stomach concave. The color was draining from his face exponentially with each second that passed, and all Ivan could do was sit there and watch.

No. This wasn’t going to be like last time. He was going to save Alfred. He wasn’t going to let him slip from his fingers so easily now. 

“No no no no,” Ivan repeated under his breath as he took off his coat and pressed it into Alfred’s wound, earning him a weak gasp from the wounded American. “Jones, stay awake. _Дерьмо_ . _Блядь._ Please, Jones. _Alfred_ , stay the fuck awake.”

But Alfred’s eyes closed, the hand that was squeezing Ivan’s knee falling onto his bloodied torso, a whisper of a sigh leaving his lips. 

“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck—” Ivan was on the brink of yelling, and before he knew it, he hoisted Alfred up into his arms with the remaining strength he had and was about to run out of the alley in a panic when the alley door squeaked open.

“Ivan?” Katyusha’s beautiful face peeked out from the door, a breath of fresh air for the panicking Russian. However, when she saw the scene before her, the quizzical expression on her face dropped into one of pure despair. 

“ _Ivan...what did you do_?” she asked in their mother tongue in a meek voice, fully stepping out into the alley, Natalya close on her heels with the same look on her face. Her sapphire eyes dropped to the American in her brother’s arms and frowned, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. 

“ _Did he try to hurt you_?” she asked, stepping forth and getting a switchblade out of her purse. 

“ _No_ ,” he replied breathlessly, and when he went to hold Alfred’s hand, he winced at how cold the other’s fingers had grown. He stepped away from Natalya, who was bringing up her switchblade to cease Alfred’s breathing. “ _No, he helped me defend myself. We have to help him. Call the car. We’re taking him home.”_

Katyusha didn’t hesitate, and she quickly disappeared behind the door back into the nightclub. Natalya, meanwhile, was still incredibly suspicious, but nevertheless helped hold down Ivan’s jacket with Alfred’s blood on his wound. 

“ _He’s been hanging around you like a lost puppy,_ ” she mumbled, lifting her hand to brush away Alfred’s hair from his face. “ _I would’ve killed him by now._ ”

Ivan didn’t say anything. He simply looked over his shoulder to see the man who nearly killed Alfred wriggling around like a dying cockroach, and he tipped his chin in the man’s direction.

“ _Kill him. But make him suffer first_ ,” he ordered just as the family car pulled up in front of the alley. Natalya grinned and licked her lips, nodding obediently. 

“ _M_ _ake it clean._ ” Natalya had a habit of making a mess of things whenever she was given orders to off someone, and it was always either Katyusha or Ivan who had to clean it up. He didn’t have much to go off, though, considering how his attacker was left unrecognizable with how hard he had pounded his head into the brick. 

Natalya nodded again and approached the man, and the last thing Ivan heard before getting into the car was the man screaming bloody murder.

He laid Alfred across his thighs, with his head in Katyusha’s lap, staring down at his wan and pallid countenance. He looked like a mummy, his dry and chapped lips and matted hair adding to the appearance. Ivan wasn’t going to let him die. 

Another bloodcurdling scream echoed off the walls as the car peeled off and down the street. 

_Good._


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred wakes up inside the Braginski mansion, and Ivan takes care of his injured friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! This week has honestly been the worst week by far of my college career (I know it'll just get worse lmao) but I wanted to treat myself by writing another chapter! I am still alive, do not fear. Things start getting cuter and ramping up after this chapter, so stay tuned!
> 
> Oh, and I guess tw for slight mention of suicidal thoughts at the end.

The heat that had been warming the side of Alfred’s body became too much, causing the American to crack open his eyes to reveal an ornately carved and painted ceiling above of him—some ten or so feet. It rivaled the beauty of the Sistine Chapel, which immediately caused him to sit up in pure confusion; no way was he ever getting close to such an extravagant show of riches. However, a searing pain broke out across his torso, causing him to cry out and plummet back onto the soft cushions underneath him, thankfully breaking his fall. 

“Fuck…” he groaned, a hand trembling with pain slowly trailing down his torso to come across rough bandages wrapped around his entire waist. There were a few around his arms and chest, covering up the ugly cuts the damn bastard inflicted on him. Oh, right—he had been in a fight. The memories of what seemed to be a day ago came flooding back to him: the breaking of the man’s skull, the scraping of the knife against his skin, the...kiss. 

Right. He had kissed Ivan. Ivan Braginski. Ivan the Terrible. He had kissed the infamous son of the most feared clan in New York City. 

And not even kissed, either. He was making out with him, nearly going to third base before those thugs interrupted them. He had been about to have sex with Ivan Braginski.

If it didn’t feel as if his guts were about to fall out of his wound already, he would have thrown up at the very thought. No, it was all a dream. He desperately wanted to believe it was a dream because then it meant he was a normal man with normal desires and urges. For women. But no. The soft cushions of a couch underneath him, the beautiful ceiling above him, and the grand fireplace lapping at the marble surrounding it in front of him were all signs that he was currently inside the Braginski estate. His boss had always wanted somebody to infiltrate the estate to steal documents, but Alfred had done so for a completely different reason. 

“How are you feeling?”

The voice ripped Alfred out of his thoughts, and he gasped and whipped his head around to reveal Ivan holding a tray of milk and some pancake-looking food on a golden porcelain plate. The Russian looked oddly...endearing. Even if he wanted to, Alfred could never picture Ivan being the person serving somebody else. He was always the one being served by the countless servants they undoubtedly had running around the mansion.

It seemed as if Ivan couldn’t picture it, either, since he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other awkwardly and avoiding eye contact at all costs. He didn’t know the first thing about bedside manner or doing something for somebody else, and yet he was there, standing there like a nervous child with a wobbling tray in his hands. 

“I’m...fine,” Alfred said haltingly, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. What the hell was happening? Did he die back in the alley and was now being indulged in Heaven with his innermost desires? 

“You don’t look fine,” Ivan replied, taking a step forward but still maintaining a good three feet of distance between them. “You look horrible.” 

It was true: Alfred looked terrible. His under-eye bags were the worst they’d ever been, a horrid dark purple and blue color that made it look as if he had two black eyes, even though the man only punched his cheek. Speaking of, his cheek and the rest of his body was also colored purple from bruises. His shirt and jacket had been taken off, exposing his pale torso that looked even paler with all the blood loss he had sustained and from the orange glow of the fireplace. Not to mention the bandages stained a dark red from the blood. The bandages digging into the side of his waist where the bastard had clipped him was now gushing with new blood from Alfred’s sudden movements, causing the American to hiss and bring a hand down to press into the bandage. 

“No—don’t,” Ivan begged, setting the tray down on the coffee table and falling to his knees to yank Alfred’s wrist back. When he brought Alfred’s hand away, it was covered in blood. “Goddamnit.” 

Alfred was feeling faint, his eyelids two anvils that wanted to close as quickly as possible. His head was in the clouds, which made the image of his hand slippery with his own blood the most comedic sight to him. 

“I guess I’m not fine after all,” he slurred as if he had one too many shots, his chest heaving to pump oxygen into his lungs to compensate for his need to laugh. 

“Stop laughing,” Ivan said, his voice suddenly faraway. When his voice returned, there was another voice alongside him, speaking in another language: most likely Russian. There was Ivan’s voice again, but also in Russian. Alfred hummed and smiled, his voice lolling from side to side at the pleasant sound of Ivan speaking Russian. His voice lowered three octaves when he spoke in his native language, making Alfred’s stomach stir. Or maybe that was the effects of the syringe in his arm, but he wasn’t thinking logically enough to deduce that.

“ _He’s just suffering the effects of blood loss,”_ the Braginski’s family doctor said, retracting the syringe filled with morphine and dropping it in his briefcase. He twirled the silk stitches around the spool and packed it away as well, clipping the locks on the briefcase shut. He looked up to Ivan, whose face was wrought with worry, his teeth strangling his bottom lip and his eyebrows pulled together to create a deep crease in his forehead. 

“ _Whoever he is will be fine,_ ” he reassured, standing up and patting Ivan’s shoulder. “ _If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought this was your pregnant wife in labor by how you’re looking at him. I have seen this look many times._ ”

A blush dotted Ivan’s cheeks, and he quickly leaned down to kiss both the doctor’s cheeks and ushered him out the room. 

“ _Thank you, Dr. Belikov_ ,” he said, not wanting to address the pregnant wife comment. “ _Get home safe. Say hello to Katrina for me_.” 

Once the coast was clear, Ivan transported back to Alfred’s side, pulling up one of the velvet chairs right next to Alfred’s head. He had rudimentary medical knowledge per his father’s orders just in case he or one of his partners got shot on the job, which Dr. Belikov said was the reason Alfred wasn’t in surgery now. The stitches the doctor gave him were crude but enough to stop him from bleeding; however, it seemed as if Alfred had ripped one when he had sat up so suddenly. The new set of stitches should reinforce the old, but Ivan was intent on making sure nothing bad happened to his...friend.

What was Alfred to him? He didn’t have the vocabulary to describe it. His...lover? No, they hadn’t done anything sexual yet. _Yet_. The word choice echoed in his mind, and he had to physically sit down with how weak his knees became. Alfred was his friend. That was how he would address him from now on. 

It was about an hour before Alfred woke up again, this time woozier than when he first woke up. He made a move to sit up, but Ivan immediately held out an arm to stop him, pushing him down gingerly and resting his hand on the American’s forehead slick with sweat. 

“Ivan…?” Alfred asked, his breathing erratic as his pale eyes trailed from his discolored torso to the Russian looking down on him. 

“I brought you milk and syrniki,” Ivan jumped in, his voice on the verge of cracking from how disoriented Alfred looked. This wasn’t how his American was supposed to look. He was used to that annoying brazenness he carried with him everywhere he went, the obnoxious laughter and cocky replies that made Ivan’s top lip twitch with intrigue. 

He snaked a hand underneath Alfred’s head and tipped it up slowly, bringing the glass of milk to his chapped and pallid lips before tipping it forward. 

“I warmed it up again when I noticed you stirring,” Ivan continued, noting how languidly Alfred was drinking the milk. He looked like a corpse. 

“What’s that?” Alfred asked, raising a shaking arm up to point to the syrniki. “Pancakes or something?” He let out an exhale that was supposed to be a laugh, sipping more milk to soothe his dry throat. “My brother makes the most fantastic pancakes. They’re the bee’s knees, Ivan, I tell ya.”

Even though his voice was drained of all its usual glamor, it still maintained his usual characteristic sayings and cocky attitude, which brought a small smile to Ivan’s face. 

“It’s syrniki,” Ivan replied, setting the empty milk glass down and bringing the plate up for Alfred to observe. “It’s very good. Although I doubt it’s as good as your brother’s pancakes, with how you’re talking so highly of them.”

Alfred grabbed hold of the tiny fork, giggling at its size and mumbling a genitalia joke under his breath before taking a small piece and putting it into his mouth. His eyes widened as well as the previous smile he had on his lips, presenting the biggest smile he’d had on the entire time. 

“This is just swell, Ivan,” Alfred whispered in surprise, licking his chops and going in for another bite. However, Ivan stopped him in his tracks, afraid too much movement would disrupt his stitches, and took the fork from him and cut him another piece. “Not as good as my brother’s pancakes, but it comes damn close.”

Ivan smiled and lowered the fork into Alfred’s mouth, watching as his tongue slid out and brought the delicious piece of food into his mouth. He quickly averted his eyes and swallowed the lump in his throat. 

It was a while of just eating and savoring the food for Alfred before he asked, “Where am I?”

Ivan looked up from scooping up the final piece of syrniki onto the fork and up at the man laying on his couch only a few inches away from his face and realized that there was no precedent for this. He had rushed into his estate, carrying a bloodied stranger in his arms, begging the guards to let him through and threatening to cut their hearts out if they questioned who Alfred was. Katyusha ran off to call Dr. Belikov while Ivan ran around their foyer like a chicken with his head cut off before finally settling down in the library on the first floor and spreading Alfred out on the couch just in time for Dr. Belikov to enter the room. Katyusha, trembling and wan, went upstairs to awaken and warn their father of Alfred’s presence just so he didn’t immediately send his bodyguard to shoot the stranger on their couch in the morning. 

Now, this stranger was alive—barely—in the hands and mansion of the Braginski family, being cared for like the most precious family member. Ivan didn’t want to think about the fallout he’d get from his father. Right now, he focused on the twinkle of childish intrigue in Alfred’s eyes. He loved soft things, and the expression on Alfred’s face was so gentle, he couldn’t help but reach out and cradle the American’s pallid cheek in his palm. 

“You’re in my home,” Ivan replied, setting down the plate on the coffee table and turning his full body to face Alfred. “I’m taking care of you.”

Another weak laugh escaped Alfred’s mouth as his head began lolling from side-to-side again. 

“Who knew I’d end up in the Braginski house not because I’m getting tortured and murdered but because I’m being kept alive?” He laughed again, except this time it was subsequently followed by a weary cough. He leaned into Ivan’s touch, his bloodied hand coming up to slide over Ivan’s and run a thumb over his scarred and dry knuckles. His eyes fell shut again, but a set of footsteps had him baring his blue eyes again at the familiar silhouette in the doorframe. 

“ _Brother,_ ” Katyusha whispered, his eyes falling upon the two men’s hands overlapping on the stranger’s cheek. Ivan quickly retracted his hand, letting it fall onto his knee as he avoided all eye contact with his sister.

“ _Yes? What did Father say?”_ he asked, his eyes still on the floor as Alfred lazily looked on, his lips curling into an amused smile at the foreign exchange. 

Natalya followed her sister in not too long after, the sleeves and bust of her dress stained with faded blood.

“ _The thugs have been taken care of,_ ” she said, following her sister’s gaze to the American. “ _Father is not happy about this._ ”

Katyusha wandered in slowly as if Alfred were a wild animal who could snap at her any minute, walking behind the couch and overlooking him as he stared up with a faraway gaze at the shadow in front of him. His glasses were long gone, lost in the alleyway and probably smashed, so he could only go off context clues as to the identities of the people around him. 

She lowered her hand and ran her fingers through Alfred’s hair, pushing the locks matted with hair back until it exposed his bruised forehead slick with sweat. 

“ _Who is he to you_?” she asked quietly as if Alfred could understand her. 

“ _I already told you_ ,” Ivan replied in a warning tone, his glare icy. “ _He’s a friend. Braginskis help out friends, don’t we_?”

“ _Not unless they’ve done something for us, you idiot_ ,” Natalya retorted. “ _What has he done for you_?”

Ivan met Katyusha’s gaze with a desperate glance, looking so small at that moment, she couldn’t help but remember how timid and shy her brother used to be as a child. She had lamented seeing their father turn him into a ruthless killing machine, all innocence and kindness lost in those amethyst eyes that turned black whenever he was offing somebody. She understood everything. Alfred brought back that glint of hope and childlike innocence in her brother, something she had not seen for nearly fifteen years until she stepped into the library and saw the two men sharing the simple affection of holding hands. And she was not about to have their family take that away from her. 

“ _He provided our little brother company while we were schmoozing for drinks, Natalya,”_ Katyusha said in her authoritarian voice that immediately made her two younger siblings straighten up. She turned to her sister, a stern expression on her face. “ _I think that’s enough of a favor as any. Now go clean up, you look like a slob._ ”

Natalya huffed and crossed her arms, but she said nothing and instead turned and left, leaving the two siblings and the wounded American alone in the library. 

“ _You have to talk to Father_ ,” Katyusha said darkly, her hands on her hips. Ivan nodded slowly and motioned for her to sit down and take care of Alfred—who had since passed out again—while he went upstairs to deal with the devil. She took Ivan’s seat and pressed the back of her hand to Alfred’s forehead, frowning and standing up. “ _He has a fever._ ”

Ivan glanced down at Alfred again, his heart—which he thought had since gone cold with how much he had beaten away his emotions—shrinking and tearing itself apart at the mere sight of the man he had grown to enjoy the company of fighting for his life over something Ivan initiated. That’s right—he himself had gotten the both of them into this mess. If he had just killed or avoided Alfred or at least not been so goddamn reckless with his urges, they wouldn’t be in this mess. Alfred wouldn’t be holding onto life by a string. 

It was all his fault.

“ _Get a cold compress. I’ll be right back_ ,” he commanded, leaving the room as quickly as possible and speeding up the stairs to his father’s study. After being woken up and told such news, he didn’t doubt that his father wouldn’t be pacing back and forth in his study, mulling over the different ways he’d torture his son for bringing such burden and embarrassment on the family. 

He gently pushed open the door to reveal his father, doing exactly what he thought he would be doing. His father stopped in his tracks once the hinges on the door squeaked, his head turning slowly to reveal the stone-cold glare that chilled Ivan to his bones. He knew this glare very well, through and through, and just like with Katyusha, he was reverted back to his childhood self, staring down at his shoes as he closed the door behind him. 

“ _Look into my eyes if you wish to explain yourself, boy_ ,” his father demanded, his voice grave and his face red with fury. “ _What is the meaning of this? You bring in a stranger into our home simply because he’s dying? This isn’t a hospital, you dunce.”_

With each word flung his way, Ivan flinched as if they were knives, his hands subconsciously coming up to his chest to see if he was bleeding. 

“ _I was merely looking out for our interests_ ,” he explained, desperately trying not to let his voice crack. “ _He’s a bootlegger, and—”_

“ _A WHAT?”_ His father’s calm exterior broke, and the slam of his fist on the desk echoed throughout his study. “ _You mean to tell me you brought in a bootlegger, who isn’t even ours, into our home, where he can see and steal anything he wants?_ ” His father ran a hand down his face in frustration. “ _You’re more of an idiot than I thought. And here I thought I taught you well. Perhaps I didn’t switch you enough._ ”

Ivan cringed. “ _I befriended him because he’s prolific. He seems very dumb, so he’s able to pass by people without suspicion. I was about to get him to come onto our side when those thugs showed up and tried to make a name for themselves._ ”

“ _Not as horribly stupid as you, I’m afraid,_ ” his father retorted. He suddenly turned his entire body to Ivan, and even though he was a few inches shorter than his son, his anger towered twelve feet above him. “ _I heard from my associates that the thugs were shouting insults._ ” His eyes narrowed. “ _Insults about you two being homosexuals_.”

His father was never one to dance around the subject, but even knowing this, Ivan was taken aback. It felt as if the wind was kicked out of him, and he struggled to recuperate in a non-suspicious way. 

“ _Yes, and_ ?” Ivan asked as nonchalantly as possible. “ _Men speak like that all the time. Alfred and I were only sharing a ciga—_ ”

“ _You refer to him by name_ ,” his father interrupted, taking a step forward as if seeing his son in a new light. “ _Is this what you have been doing instead of looking after your sisters at the club? I send you there on watch, not to indulge in your disgusting urges._ ”

His father took out a cigar and swatted Ivan’s hand away when he offered to light it, lighting it himself and taking a long drag of it. “ _Are you a homosexual, Ivan_?”

His father never referred to him by name. Only ‘boy’ or ‘son.’ Was he no longer considered his son? 

“ _No_ ,” Ivan answered, his voice booming with contempt. “ _And I am offended you would think that_.”

“ _Oh, clutch your pearls, Ivan_ .” His father took another step forward, pausing to take another drag from his cigar. “ _Remember Damian?_ ”

Flashes of screaming, crying, and blood echoed in Ivan’s ears and mouth, almost as if he was watching a film. 

“ _I thought it was a phase. That’s why I got rid of him. But,”_ his father sucked in a sharp breath, “ _it seems as if I was wrong._ ”

“ _I am not a homosexual, Father_ ,” Ivan repeated in the same solid tone as before. “ _I am not interested in anything other than the family business_.”

His father stayed silent, leaning against the desk and tapping his cigar against the ashtray. He stared at his son, his eyebags seeming to get plumper by the minute. Finally, he cleared his throat.

_“If I catch you with another man, you will be the next person I kill, not him._ ” He blinked. “ _I won’t hesitate next time_.” 

Ivan gulped. “ _You won’t catch me with one. Because I am not interested in men, Father_.”

“ _Don’t call me Father_ .” He turned around and tapped his cigar in the ashtray again before walking back behind his desk and sitting down in his chair. He straightened out some paper and picked up a pen, sandwiching his cigar between his teeth. “ _Now get out of here. And I better not see that bootlegger around unless he’s working for us._ ”

“ _He will_ ,” Ivan replied. “ _He will be the top earner, trust me, Fath—_ ” He interrupted himself. “ _He’s a good employee_.”

His father grunted a reply and waved his son off, and the second Ivan stepped into the hallway and closed the door, his shoulders slumped as he let out a long sigh. He went back down to the library, although it took him a while to do so since his knees were so wobbly. He should have killed Alfred when he had the chance.

He should have killed himself. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred wakes up feeling better, and Ivan teaches him to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midterm week is OVER!!! Finally have some time to myself. Here's the new chapter! Hope you like it, and with my new time management skills, another one will be posted soon!

The next time Alfred awoke, his bandages were dry and had only a few browning spots of blood, and when he moved, he felt the softest fabric underneath his bare arms. When he looked down, he had to blink several times and rub his eyes to make sure what he was seeing was correct. Even without his glasses, he could very clearly see that he had been sleeping on pure silk under a duvet heavy with top-tier quality down. 

He had died and had managed to squeeze his way into Heaven somehow. Because this could not be real life. He was born poor and would die that way. There was no possibility—

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Oh. Right. Again, flashes of that night ran through Alfred’s head at that Russian accent, leaving him even more disoriented than he already was. He swung his gaze toward the blurry figure darkening the door frame, the flames from the fireplace draping him in an ominous orange glow. 

“You bounce back quickly, Jones. I have to say I’m surprised.” The figure moved forward, revealing himself to be the very same Ivan Braginski as in his flashbacks. Alfred blinked because that’s all he could do at that moment out of pure shock. 

“I brought you some tea. Although, Americans don’t drink as much tea as I expected.” Ivan just kept on talking, but none of it registered in his brain. All he could see was red the second the gangster sat on the edge of the bed, causing the American to flounder about, trying his hardest to escape the Russian’s clutches. 

“Hey, hey—what are you doing? You’ll open up your stitches,” Ivan exclaimed hurriedly, grabbing Alfred’s wrist and pulling the blond towards him, but he wouldn’t give.

“Let me go. Let me—stop!” Alfred’s shout echoed off the walls of the bedroom, which was a testament to how ornately it was built, with marble and stucco decorating the walls. The two men stilled just like the marble pillars around them in a standoff, with Ivan’s hand floating in midair and Alfred huffing from the sudden movement. 

Slowly, the blond moved his gaze to meet Ivan’s, and the expression on his face nearly made him break. Only then did he remember everything they’d been through as desperate strangers in the night: the constant meetings, the flurry of hurried kisses, and the thugs that tried to kill them. He also remembered the crack of the man’s head as Ivan threw him against the wall like a ragdoll, and that’s all that he could hear as he stared at the man in front of him.

And Ivan knew that. Seeing Alfred, such a boisterous person with an unapologetically loud and big personality, shrink away from him and try to hide under the blankets and mound of pillows, made his heart harden and his face stoic. He had opened his heart far too much for somebody he barely knew. What the hell was he doing? He should’ve just—

“We like coffee.”

The soft voice broke Ivan out of his self-destructive thoughts, and he glanced up from the duvet up to the American in front of him, who was suddenly a lot closer than before. A hand slipped over his own, and when he looked back down, he saw it was Alfred’s battered and bruised knuckles clutching him. 

Alfred took a deep breath and continued. “Coffee’s our thing. Tea’s for the British and stuck-up sons of bitches with too much time on their hands.” He cracked a smile with his chapped lips, cocking his head slightly like a golden retriever. 

There he was. There was the American Ivan knew. With that small smile, his heart melted its protective cover, once again leaving him vulnerable to whatever Alfred F. Jones threw at him. 

“I suppose I’m one of those sons of bitches with too much time on my hands?” Ivan postulated with a sly grin, causing Alfred to raise a brow and copy his grin. 

“I mean, judging by your Gatsby mansion here, I’d say you have a thousand servants to do everything for you,” Alfred replied, slowly pushing himself up to a seated position and inadvertently letting out a groan of pain and a few curses under his breath as he did so. 

“You’re not wrong,” Ivan replied quietly, but he focused instead on Alfred’s wellbeing, helping him sit up and monitoring his bandages to see if any blood tainted them. They were slightly browned from the old blood after the doctor had operated on him, but otherwise, clean. “So, how are you feeling?”

Alfred looked down at his torso, and, in a move of bashfulness, pulled the covers up and over his chest. Ivan barely had the time the past twenty-four hours to admire Alfred’s body, but now that it was gone, he yearned to see it again and had to fight himself against grabbing the covers and pulling them down again. 

“...Fine,” Alfred replied after a moment. He shakily reached over to the tea on the nightstand and took a sip, wincing at the taste but continuing to drink it since it soothed his raspy throat. “I feel great, actually. I think I can go home. I wouldn’t want to—”

“No.” 

Both of the men were surprised at Ivan’s interjection, and again, Alfred shrunk away from the Russian. What did he want? Why did he want to keep him longer? To take him to his father and torture him to get all the information they wanted out of him? 

Seeing Alfred’s hesitation, Ivan reached forward and slipped a hand over Alfred’s that was clutching the covers protectively, sliding his thumb over his knuckles and trying to ignore the instinctive flinch the blond gave toward the touch. 

“You’re not overstaying your welcome,” Ivan said, finishing Alfred’s interrupted sentence. “I want to make sure you stay here until you’re well. Your stitches are still fresh. I wouldn’t want you to tear them on the way home. And I know you’ll go right back to work, won’t you?” 

The crackling of the fireplace was all that could be heard after his last question, Alfred knowing that any answer he gave wouldn’t matter. If he said ‘no,’ that was a lie, and he was a horrible liar. If he said ‘yes,’ then Ivan would keep him longer. It wasn’t as if it was a particularly bad thing to stay in this plush bed, warmed by a fireplace larger than some of the walls in his house, and being waited on his every beck and call. But his family needed him, and he didn’t exactly want to meet Ivan’s father yet, knowing he lived in this mansion. He didn’t even know his relationship with Ivan, he _definitely_ didn’t want to explain it to the man’s father. 

“Right. Then,” Ivan took a breath, his other hand coming to grasp Alfred’s hand, “please stay here a little longer. You have family, yes?”

Alfred gulped and nodded. “Yeah.”

Ivan took out a pen and paper from his pocket and handed it to him. “Write down their address. We will take care of them in the meantime.”

Two things: one, Alfred was illiterate. Two, the hairs on the back of his neck bristled at the phrase ‘take care of them.’ That was what his boss would say to his lackeys in reference to a driver who was giving them trouble, and it meant that that driver wouldn’t return to work the next day. Or ever. 

Eventually, he asked, “Take care of them, as in…?” 

Ivan furrowed his brow. How could he get Alfred to trust him? Well, he couldn’t, considering his father would kill both of them if he saw them any closer than three feet in fear that his son would give in to his sinful desires once again. But the door was bolted shut, and it was just the two of them. When it was just the two of them, Alfred was the safest he could be in the entirety of New York City. 

“Give them food and blankets and whatever they need in the form of anonymous gifts,” he replied. “No contact will be made. They will be completely safe and cared for.” 

Alfred visibly relaxed. The pillow behind him softened under his weight, and the covers slipped from his clutch and pooled on his lap, revealing his tan chest once again, now to Ivan’s appreciative gaze. 

“Okay,” he whispered, nodding more to himself than to Ivan’s request. He knew he had to stay. The stitches felt flimsy at best, and every time he moved, he feared that he’d rip them open and his guts would spill all over the silk sheets. However, he had another thing to worry about: the paper and pen in front of him. 

“I—uh, I can’t write,” Alfred said quietly, so quietly that it was probably the quietest he’d ever been in his entire life. “Can’t read, neither.”

Ivan was evidently taken aback, which made Alfred turn his head in order to escape that look of surprise and pity on the Russian’s face. However, when he looked back, he was smiling. 

“You’re not literate?” Ivan stood up, and from Alfred’s point of view, it seemed as if he stood up out of fear that illiterateness was a disease that he could catch by being too close to him. However, his eyes trailed the Russian as he walked over to a grand bookcase, rubbing his chin and smiling an unreadable smile. “Then that just means you have a whole world of imagination ahead of you. You should be excited. I have many books here for you to look at. But, first…”

A bit of shuffling later, Ivan produced a rectangular leather case and walked back over to the bed, the mattress squeaking under his weight as he sat down. He stretched out his arm and held the case in front of Alfred, who looked down at it quizzically and hesitated to reach out until he saw Ivan nod in affirmation. 

He reached forward and brought the case to his chest, opening it just as Ivan said, “You can’t read without glasses, can you?” 

Inside the case was, lo and behold, a pair of glasses that put his previous pair to shame. These were well-made designer glasses that would last him the rest of his life if he didn’t run into trouble like last time while he was lucky if his previous pair stayed together for a few more months longer. 

Without realizing it, a tear rolled down Alfred’s cheek, and he only noticed it once he spotted the shocked expression on Ivan’s face. He sniffled away the water in his eyes quickly and brushed the tear away as subtly as he could with the back of his hand, pursing his lips and nodding appreciatively. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, but his voice cracked and gave away just how emotional he got over the simple present. 

He was being far too vulnerable with a gangster who has probably killed over a hundred people with his bare hands, but he couldn’t help it. He shakily took the pair out of the case and put them on after making sure his face was dry of tears, his blurry surroundings becoming as clear as a river after snowmelt. He looked around the room, finally seeing the ornate carvings in the stucco along the walls and the bookshelf packed with books without a single space left between them. And right in front of him sat one of the most handsome men he’d seen in his life, nearly unrecognizable from the gray blob he used to be before the glasses added definition to his pale face. Those amethyst eyes that caught his sight on the first day he saw them shone through in the gray locks that fell in front of them, and, without thinking, Alfred reached up and brushed them out of his face and behind his ear, revealing the hooked nose and sharp jawline that made him swallow the lump in his throat. 

_Move, move, move, goddamn it_ . All of the alarm bells in Ivan’s head were going off, but he couldn’t move a muscle now that he and Alfred locked eyes, and _especially_ because the other man had the audacity to caress the side of his face with the softest hands he’d ever felt. It was remarkable how soft his hands were considering all the hard backbreaking work he had to do his entire life, and Ivan couldn’t help but raise a hand and slip it over Alfred’s and press his palm completely against his face. The warmth was unbearable. 

He quickly shot up to his feet, coughing into his fist and turning away to hide his undoubtedly red cheeks, covering his mouth with his hand. 

“You should rest,” he mumbled, looking to see if Alfred had drunk all the tea. Once he saw it was empty, he picked it up and hurried to the door, the air inside the bedroom having suddenly grown as heavy as his conscience. “I will come by later with dinner.”

“But I already rested enough,” Alfred retorted, crossing his arms like a toddler being told to go to bed.

Ivan turned around and chuckled softly at the scene before him, internally overjoyed to have his American back and safe. “You’ve only slept a few hours, Jones. You must relax. How many times have you done that in your life?”

The question rendered Alfred speechless, and instead of replying, simply laid back down on the side that wasn’t mangled and pulled the covers up to his ear to avoid the smirk that certainly occupied Ivan’s lips, and he only pushed them off once he heard the door open and close. 

…

It was only a day later that Alfred was allowed to stand up. He was about to stretch out of instinct until Ivan yelled at him to stop, nearly causing him to jump out of his skin in surprise. 

“Geez, man, don’t yell at me like that!” he chided, pulling on a white button-down Ivan lent him that was two sizes too big. It hung halfway down his thigh, swallowing his hands whole and barely covering his collarbones with how low it was. 

Ivan could barely contain himself, having to turn around and pretend to busy himself with a book and act like it was the most interesting book in the world. Although it was flustering to see Alfred’s bare body and see how adorably small he looked in his clothes, it was troubling how skinny he was, to say the least. Ivan knew he was poor, but having grown up most of his life incredibly wealthy, he didn’t exactly know what poverty looked like. Evidently, it looked like individual vertebrae showing in his back and ribs making their unwelcome appearance whenever he lifted his arms. 

“I apologize,” he said after a while, waiting until the shuffling of the clothes stopped to turn back around. Alfred, once again, looked like a toddler in his father’s clothes as he stood in the middle of the guest room, a pouty expression on his face. Ivan laughed and stepped forward, fixing up the clothes to try and make him a little more presentable and make sure he didn’t trip over the legs of his trousers. He tried to pull the belt tighter, but even the tightest knob on the belt was much too big to sit around his waist, which worried Ivan even more. He sighed and dug around in his pocket for his pocket knife, brandishing it as usual, but when he felt Alfred flinch away, he stopped in his tracks and looked up to see the other’s pale eyes wide in fear and staring directly at the knife. 

“Alfred.” Ivan spoke softly so as not to alert the American but also to hide the guilt in his voice. He waited until those fearful blue eyes met his, and he hesitated before saying, “I won’t hurt you.”

Alfred’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. “I know.” 

But that wasn’t convincing. 

Ivan dropped his gaze back to the belt and made a hole that would keep the trousers on Alfred’s waist, tucking the knife back into his pocket and looping the belt onto its rightful place on the other’s hips. 

“Good to go,” Ivan said, trying to recover from their tense exchange. “Now, let’s go see the beautiful day outside, yes?”

“Yeah.” Alfred managed a smile and nod, shaking out his legs to make sure they still worked after laying down for so long before putting them to work. They emerged from the guest room to a house so massive, Alfred thought it was Buckingham Palace. He stood in one place, completely forgetting that they were going outside, just to admire his surroundings with his new glasses, a faraway smile on his lips. “Wow. Houses like this exist in New York?”

The sight was beyond endearing to Ivan. He was never fond of his estate. It was far too cold and empty all the time, and there were still some rooms that were a mystery to him, only to be revealed once he took over the family business. He hated the house as a child since there was nowhere he could play without being within three feet of some priceless sculpture or work of art. He still had the switching scars his father so graciously blessed him with. It was also incredibly easy to hear screams resound throughout the house. 

But Alfred made the house almost look...appealing. Like an actual home, not just a house. Or was it just Alfred who made everything around him seem like home?

“What’s that room over there?” Alfred asked, snapping Ivan out of his thoughts. He turned to see the other pointing to an ornately carved sandalwood door, grimacing and looking down at the floor. 

“My office,” he replied, and before his brain could catch up to his body, he grabbed Alfred’s wrist and pulled him to the stairs. 

“But I want to see what you do in there!” Alfred exclaimed, trying to yank his wrist out of Ivan’s hold as he was forced to go down the stairs, albeit very slowly. Ivan wasn’t completely stupid as to risk Alfred’s stitches opening. 

“You don’t want to see that,” Ivan replied quickly, helping the other down the stairs until they got to the ground floor. It was completely empty, as it usually was. His family was always busy doing something in their respective offices or going out into the city to perform a variety of tasks for the business. The servants stayed in their quarters unless the members of the family rang a bell to get their attention, and their security knew how to stay out of sight. 

“ _Wow_ ,” Alfred breathed, approaching a bust of Alexander the Great in a lighted nook alongside a faithful reproduction of Venus de Milo. “Look at this. This is fantastic. How can somebody do that? With a hammer, too.” He turned to the Venus de Milo sculpture and bit back laughter. “How the hell can you make tits that nice with a hammer?” 

He reached out directly to Venus’ breasts, but Ivan smacked his hand away. 

“That’s art, Alfred. Look, don’t touch,” Ivan said, repeating the same sentence he heard over and over as a child. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he was the least bit jealous of a statue. He guided Alfred to the glass doors that lead outside, stopping nearly every other second for the curious American to admire another art installation or painting and talk about it for another minute before being ushered along by his tour guide. However, the second they reached the glass doors, the clicking of heels on the marble floor caused Ivan’s ears to perk up, and when he turned around, Natalya stood in the middle of the two grand staircases with her arms crossed and her silvery blond hair split evenly in front of her, laying flat on her chest. 

“ _He’s still here_ ?” she asked in Russian, which was enough to get Alfred to stiffen in place like the statue to his right. “ _Why the hell are you showing him around the house? So he can see where we keep all our important information?”_ She paused and sneered. “ _In your clothes, no less_ . _If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you two fucked_.” 

Ivan tried to stay calm, but he technically didn’t tell them Alfred was still here. Even Braginski members didn’t get the level of care Alfred did; their father would just tell them to suck it up and get back to work. Not to mention drivers, like Alfred was supposed to be. Drivers got no healthcare; unless they were particularly of use to the family or very close friends with their father, they were just another casualty that was swept under the rug. 

“ _I had to make sure he was in good health to make sure he could deliver for us,_ ” Ivan replied, keeping his voice level. Natalya wasn’t a snitch, but if it came down to getting herself in trouble or selling Ivan out, she’d choose the latter. “ _And I threw away his old clothes. They were stained with blood_.”

She frowned deeply, her eyes narrowing as she turned his gaze to Alfred. “ _He better meet all these expectations you’re building for him. Or else…”_

She dragged a finger across her neck, and even though Alfred didn’t understand the context, he understood that gesture well enough to know the context was nothing good. He looked to Ivan for reassurance, but that unreadable expression on the other’s face offered him no consolation. 

“ _He’s good_ ,” Ivan said. “ _I’m going to teach him to ropes now that he’s better. He’ll be delivering soon._ ”

Natalya scoffed. “ _He better. I like you. It’d be a shame if Father killed you._ ” Her lips still held a frown, but Ivan knew better. His sister was worried for him and his well being, and even though she would do anything to save her own life, if she had the chance, she’d do anything to save her brother’s life first, and that included killing Alfred. 

She gave Alfred another stern glare before the clicking of her heels slowly faded away as she climbed the stairs to walk to her office. She was gone, but her presence stayed behind long after she left regardless. 

“Sheesh,” Alfred said after a while, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I get the impression that I’m not really welcome here.”

“I’ll make them welcome you,” Ivan said in a voice low enough to rumble Alfred’s chest, and he felt his cheeks warm up at his authoritarian tone. He found himself nodding obediently, as if he was the one at the receiving end of Ivan’s anger, not his family. 

“Good to know.” Natalya’s entrance completely killed Alfred’s desire to explore the house further, and he passively let Ivan pull his wrist outside into the cool morning air. 

It was still early, as evidenced by the warblers singing high in the yellowing trees at the cusp of autumn. 

“They’re going to leave soon,” Ivan said after they both had a moment to themselves to admire the grandiose garden in front of them. Alfred was too busy admiring the enormous garden and wondering how long it took to put together to have heard Ivan’s comment, but once he processed it, he turned to the other in confusion.

“What?” he asked.

“The warblers,” Ivan replied, motioning to the birds perched on the branches, shaking orange and red leaves onto the ground to be raked by the landscaper later that day. “They’re going to migrate soon. I read it in a book.”

“You mean the birds?” Alfred clarified, still lost. “They’re called...warblers? And what’s migrating?” 

Ivan chuckled and began to step down the granite staircase onto the large patio overlooking sprawling emerald fields, a sunflower garden that looked to be the size of Central Park, a maze made of twenty-foot tall hedges, and a pond filled with fish and populated by frogs and dragonflies. 

“You can read the book later. I’m a horrible teacher. But first,” Ivan reached in his trenchcoat and brought out two books, waving it in front of Alfred’s face while wiggling his eyebrows excitedly, “you have to learn how to read.” 

Alfred’s face lit up immediately, and he began to hop on his toes like an overjoyed dog. If he had a tail, it would be wagging a mile a minute, and he reached forward for one of the books, but Ivan used the height difference to his advantage and pulled back and held the book above the other’s head. 

“Ah-ah, let’s sit down first. I brought a notebook for you to take notes because,” his gaze sobered, a stern frown on his lips, “you will be taking notes. By the end of the week, you will be able to read this book, front and back.” 

Alfred glanced at the book Ivan was referring to, and to his surprise, it was _The Great Gatsby_. 

“Hey, that book’s great! Or so I’ve heard. My brother went to the library in his free time and read it in one sitting,” he continued, his voice still carrying the tone of awe. “This is gonna be easy.”

“Mhm,” Ivan hummed smugly as he helped Alfred down the stairs. As much as the stubborn American believed he could take the stairs on his own, Ivan didn’t budge, keeping a firm arm around his waist as he guided him down the path of moss-covered stones to the pond in front of the sunflower garden. It was a sea of yellow, the garden being one of Ivan’s small requests to his father on his thirteenth birthday. They had a particularly good fiscal year that year, and his father decided to splurge on the heir to his throne in order to keep him docile for the coming years, holding the garden over his head and threatening to cut it all down every time he dared step out of line. 

He helped Alfred sit down on a bench facing the pond, only a few feet away from the gentle waves lapping at the banks. Ivan dug in the inside pocket of his coat and brought out a paper bag of oats, tossing a liberal amount onto the surface of the pond with an inadvertent smile on his face. As much as he didn’t mean to smile while tossing food to a few fish, it didn’t mean it was lost on Alfred. He noticed. Oh, how he noticed. 

“You like nature a lot,” he remarked, causing the other to whirl around as if he had forgotten Alfred was there. His eyes trailed to the sunflower garden and let out an appreciative whistle. “Especially sunflowers.”

Ivan followed his gaze to the field and smiled bashfully, tucking the empty paper bag into his coat again and fixing his scarf before sitting down on the bench next to Alfred, ignoring how warm another person’s body was next to his. 

“They make me happy,” he replied, setting the two books he brought on his lap. “They have brought me happiness my entire life. Whenever I would get sad, my big sister would bring me a sunflower and tell me that if I didn’t smile, the flower would die.”

Saying it out loud and in English instead of Russian, he realized how manipulative it was to tell a child that a flower’s death was their fault, but in the moment, it was the only thing that kept him smiling through the pain of his childhood and adolescence. However, that realization was lost on Alfred, whose eyes sparkled as bright as the reflection of the early morning sun on the pond. 

“My brother kind of said the same thing to me,” he replied, a nostalgic glint in his eyes. “I’m the oldest, so that meant I had to work to earn my keep. Whenever I came home tired, my brother would make me pancakes, and if I didn’t eat them, he said he’d cry until my parents came in and got me in trouble.” He laughed as he retold the story, staring at the sunflower field and sighing contentedly. He closed his eyes to savor the sunlight on his face; he always thought of the sun as a nuisance, coming out to torture him with heat whenever he had to work outside, but now, with Ivan by his side...it was almost pleasant. 

“I’ve never been in a real knife fight, Ivan,” he said suddenly, opening his eyes to reveal the Russian in front of him. “I mean, us kids used to get sticks and try to stab each other with them, but it never hurt like this before.” He subconsciously ran his fingers over the bandages, the rough texture tactile through the thin white shirt. “I had to fight tooth and nail to make a name for myself in the streets or else the kids wouldn’t leave me and Matthew alone. I had to fight for both of us. Matthew knows a few moves, but he eventually breaks down crying because he hates hurting other people. I mean, I do, too, but one of us had to protect the both of us.” 

He hesitated, biting his lip before coming out to say, “Do you like hurting people, Ivan?” 

Once again, Ivan became a statue next to him, his body steel with how tense he became. He’d never talked about his feelings before. He just kept them stored away in a chest anchored by a hundred chains in the deepest pits of his heart, never to see the light of day. And yet, Alfred was shining a spotlight on it, and he had the key to unlock it. 

“No, I don’t,” Ivan replied slowly, measuring out his words. As much as he wished to be vulnerable with Alfred—with anybody, really—he was still a liability. Alfred clearly demonstrated he was interested in him, but this kind of love between men never lasted. And if he was left to roam the streets with Ivan’s secrets, he would have no choice but to kill him. 

“I don’t like hurting people. Like I said, Jones: you don’t have to be scared of me. It’s my job. I do it for a living. I grew up this way, and I’ll die this way. You just...grow numb to it.” He shrugged and shuffled the books around in his lap to have something to do with his hands, anything to not look Alfred in the eyes. He didn’t want to see what expression that face held.

“...Numb?” As much as Ivan didn’t want to look up, he had to at that simple statement. Alfred’s eyes were wide, his eyebrows furrowed so deeply that they formed a single line in the middle of his forehead. “You can’t grow numb to it. Then you’re not human.”

Ivan scoffed. “I suppose I’m not human, then.”

Alfred shook his head. “You’re human, Ivan. You’re terribly human. I wouldn’t like you if you weren’t human.” 

A book slipped off Ivan’s lap onto the grass, which was a testament to how flustered he so suddenly became. He stuttered out an apology and reached down to get it, only for the other book to fall down and into the grass. He couldn’t form a single sentence for nearly a minute as he gathered the books back into his lap and fixed his coat that didn’t need fixing, anything to do to distract Alfred from the horrid blush on his cheeks. 

“Oh. Well. Ahem.” Ivan coughed into his hand again, swishing his hair out of his eyes. “Good to know.” After a moment of awkward silence between them where both were trying to figure out what to say, he added, “I don’t want you to be like me, Alfred. You don’t think I’m numb, but that’s what I had to be in order to survive. That guy has a family? In my head, he doesn’t. In my head, he just killed Natalya and Katyusha and I’m avenging them. That’s the only way I don’t hear his screams at night and am able to get an hour or two of sleep.”

He turned his knees in Alfred’s direction, his blond eyelashes glinting in the sunlight as he turned his head to the man by his side. “Please don’t become like me, Alfred. I will help your family with leftover funds from the business. You just act like you work for me, but you won’t have to do anything. Your family will be safe, and you won’t have to see what I do on a daily basis. Please, Al—”

“I want to read.” Alfred’s voice was stern, his eyes narrowed in determination. “Teach me how to read, Ivan.” 

When Ivan opened his mouth to interject, he immediately reached forward and interlaced his fingers with the Russian’s, his thumb caressing each knuckle until that faraway look appeared in Ivan’s eyes. 

“What’s this one called?” Alfred continued, picking up a small book with a cartoon bathtub on the cover. “M...I know that’s an M. Uh...that’s a—”

“ _Moydodyr_ ,” Ivan answered, his mind returning back to Earth. He imperceptibly shook his head in order to rid his brain of the thoughts that populated it the second he felt Alfred’s warm hand on his and focused his attention on the book. If Alfred wanted to talk about that, all he had to do was ask instead of manipulating him with his body. “You’re right. That’s an M, and that’s an O. Luckily, I got the translated version on a business trip to Russia. It was my favorite bedtime story as a child.”

“Woah,” Alfred breathed, thumbing through the pages and admiring the illustrations on each one. “I love books with pictures. But hey, I’m learning the words now, right? I gotta get up to _The Great Gatsby_ soon.” 

Ivan chuckled and shook his head, taking the book from Alfred’s hands and spreading it across both of their laps, flipping it to the first page. 

“So, this letter is an A. That’s the beginning of the alphabet,” Ivan explained, motioning to Alfred’s notebook. “You better be taking notes.”

Alfred giggled and nodded excitedly, picking up the pen and carefully copying what the A looked like in print onto the paper. “I am.” 

The two men continued just like that, going through the entire alphabet with their hands interlocked (Alfred made sure to take advantage of Ivan’s closeness) and the birds singing and twittering along with the babbling pond until late afternoon. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred can't take being inside Ivan's mansion, so he escapes the house, along with the bootlegger lifestyle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't have much work to do over this weekend, so I managed to bang this out today! Hope you enjoy! There's more action here than in past chapters, so strap in!
> 
> Also, tw for mention of sexual assault at the end.

Ivan snuck Alfred back into the guest room once he scoped out the house to make sure his father was still out on the job for business meetings, bringing his temporary housemate dinner on a silver tray and setting it down on his lap. He watched as Alfred marveled at the array of colorful and fragrant food in front of him, and he fought back the urge to laugh once he spotted a drop of drool making its way down the other’s chin as he cut into the large steak.

“Why, Ivan, I must say this is the best dinner I’ve had in my entire life,” Alfred said after a moment of simply marveling at the food. The reaction he had after placing the steak in his mouth was that much more dramatic, filled with ecstatic squeals, exclamations of surprise, and moans that set Ivan’s mind running. The only thing that took him out of his perverted fantasies was the amusing way Alfred held his utensils, with his fingers fully grasping the silver fork and knife as if they’d run away at any moment. He supposed that that was what it was like growing up in poverty: anything good would run away in an instant. 

After finishing his dinner in only a few gulps and taking the time to lick the sauce off the plate, and kissed his fingers and said, “Compliments to the chef.” 

Ivan chuckled and picked up the silver tray, setting it aside to pull up the covers over Alfred’s lap to tuck him into bed. “I’ll let Rhonda know. She loves compliments.” He paused, smoothing the fabric underneath his fingers. “I know you do, too. Good job today with reading. You’re almost through the entire alphabet, and you’re writing the letters very well, too.”

He smiled softly as he recalled the way Alfred held the pen in his hand, almost exactly the way he held his utensils: gripping it in his fist like a toddler. He’d have to teach him how to properly hold such things soon, but he hadn’t built up the courage to touch Alfred’s hands quite yet. 

“Well, Modeer makes it easy to learn,” the American replied, leaning against the plush headboard and gazing at Ivan from lowered eyelids. A full stomach following such an eventful day was enough to make anybody fatigued—most of all Alfred, who had never experienced anything like a full stomach in his entire life. He lifted his hand to cover his mouth as he yawned, but it ended early out of surprise as Ivan’s hand came into vision and quickly blurred once his glasses were slid off his face. 

“ _Moydodyr,_ ” Ivan corrected as he collapsed Alfred’s glasses and placed them on the nightstand. He chuckled at the other’s horrible pronunciation, but there were still some English words he had trouble with in his thick accent, so he didn’t mock him too horribly. “Close enough, though. You’re tired, so we can work on the title later.” He pat Alfred’s leg underneath the covers lightly, pushing himself off the bed and picking up the silver tray. “I’ll see you tomorrow for more lessons, Jones. You’re a quick learner, just as I thought you were.”

Alfred nodded, but the grin that was on his lips faded as he watched Ivan walk away and turn out the lights. He managed to force on a small smile when the Russian turned around to wave a final goodbye before closing the door, leaving him alone in the room. 

He stayed in bed, his eyes flicking over to the clock on the nightstand every five minutes to see how much time had passed. Once he deemed it late enough in the night for his plan, he tossed the covers off his body and swung his legs over the mattress, pushing himself off and wincing at the pain that spread around his torso. He ignored it as much as he could, only flinching a few times as he padded on the cold marble floor over to the window, looking over the ledge to the ground.

The problem with Ivan’s statement of seeing him tomorrow was that the ‘tomorrow’ part was false. He was sure that he’d see the mobster at least once more in his life, whether it was by accident or by him hunting him down to kill him for escaping. But he needed to leave. This life wasn’t for him, just like Ivan admitted. The house was gorgeous, yes, but it was so cold and lifeless. He felt constricted, even underneath the twenty-foot-tall ceilings, as if Ivan’s father’s hand was around his throat, choking him until he turned purple. 

He hadn’t even seen the man in person, and yet his presence was heavy everywhere around the house. Portraits of the Braginski family were hung around the home, each of them wearing apathetic frowns on their lips as they stared unseeing right back at him as he passed them. A portrait of Ivan’s father, hung in the enormous library Ivan showed him before tucking him into bed, was the most terrifying of them all. His spine-chilling, glaring eyes followed Alfred wherever he walked as if the man himself was in front of him, glowering at him disapprovingly with a face that screamed death. 

Alfred also needed to get his life back on track. What the hell was he doing in a mob boss’s house anyway? Why the hell is he fraternizing with the enemy? Why the hell is he falling asleep to flowery dreams of leading a peaceful life with Ivan, a man and a gangster who could slice his throat open at any moment? He needed to go back to his home, earn his keep, marry a woman, have a couple of kids that he can hopefully afford to feed, and settle down in the countryside while planting wheat. At best, he’d die young of some disease, but at least that’d be a normal way to go. At least he’d live a normal life. At least he wouldn’t be giving his heart to a man who had his hands stained with the blood of hundreds, staining them once again with his own blood. 

The jump wasn’t too awful. Luckily, he was only on the second floor out of what seemed to be a dozen, tying his bedsheets together and to the leg of the wardrobe as an anchor before climbing down and hopping onto the grass. The hearty meal he had earlier gave him more than enough strength and energy to do so, and the adrenaline pumping through his body acted as a natural painkiller for his wound. He held it as he jogged around the house, trying to make sure it didn’t split open again while staying close to the walls just in case a sniper took him out. He stuck to the shadows, dodging a guard on his nightly rounds and hopping over a gate to find himself on concrete. He turned around, seeing the front of the massive home and nearly celebrated until he realized he wasn’t out of the woods yet. He slowly made his way onto the main road and walked until his bare feet, raw from walking for hours, came upon gravel, and when he looked up, he found his neighborhood surrounding him like a warm, familiar blanket. He always hated this neighborhood—it was a constant reminder of his past and the inescapable bonds of poverty. But at that moment, it couldn’t have been a better sight. 

He sagged forward, haggard and weary like a traveler on his fifth day on the road, and almost knocked down his front door trying to get inside. He had left all his belongings, including his keys, back at the Braginski mansion, so all he could do was bang his forehead against the wood until Matthew opened the door, which caused him to fall forward and into his brother’s arms. 

“Al!” Matthew gasped in surprise, practically dropping his brother onto the floor before he tensed his arms and brought the other into a standing position. He quickly wrapped an arm around Alfred’s torso, but when he heard his brother groan and wince at the touch, he slowly laid him on the couch and dropped to his knees. 

“What happened to you?” he breathed as he surveyed Alfred’s condition, his eyes widening incrementally the more he scanned his brother’s bruised and battered body. He spotted the top of bandages underneath his oversized button-down shirt and reached forward to tear the shirt apart, buttons clattering on the floor as Alfred’s torso was exposed in all its injured glory. 

“ _Alfred_!” a shriek ripped throughout the small house. When Matthew turned around, it was none other than his mother, who, in a flurry of tears, ran forward and fell to the sofa’s side, tossing her arms around her son’s neck and sobbing into his shoulder. “I thought you had been _murdered_! Where did you go? What happened to you?”

“I—” Alfred didn’t get the chance to answer before his father was upon him as well, crying into his son’s golden hair and pressing his face into his chest until all Alfred could breathe in was the oil on his father’s cotton shirt. 

“Water. You need water. Matthew, dear, go fetch some water for your brother,” his mother instructed, waving away her youngest son before going back to focusing on the one in front of her. 

“I’m fine, everybody, I’m fine,” Alfred finally managed to say, coughing into his fist before reaching out and taking the offered water, gulping it down as if it was the last glass of water on Earth. “I...I got into a scuffle. That’s it.”

“A scuffle? A _scuffle_? Alfred F. Jones, does a scuffle explain this?” As she reprimanded her son, she carefully unwound the bandages until they exposed the still very fresh and crude stitches keeping his skin together. He sighed and handed Matthew the glass before turning to his father, who had the gravest expression on his face he’d ever seen in his life.

“What have you been doing, Al?” his father asked grimly, his voice low and hoarse. “I couldn’t believe that you were bootlegging when your brother told me, but...it seems as if he was right. This is because of bootlegging, isn’t it?”

As much as Alfred wanted to say, “As surprising as it is, it’s not from bootlegging but from homosexual acts. What a surprise, huh, Dad?” he couldn’t possibly admit that. Instead, Matthew answered for him.

“It was the Braginskis, wasn’t it?” he asked quietly, but his face was anything but meek. It was downright scary with how his bangs hung in front of his face, casting his eyes in darkness. “They did this to you.”

When Alfred didn’t answer (he couldn’t exactly deny it since it was technically the truth), the hands by Matthew’s thighs clutched into fists, his entire body tensed until he released all the energy through the slam of a fist on the dining table. It rattled loudly and made a booming sound that caused Alfred to sit up from fear, immediately falling back down from the pain that ripped throughout his body. 

“Look at what they did to you, Al,” Matthew murmured, motioning to his brother’s body. “This is what bootlegging did to you. It nearly killed you.” He took a sharp breath in before whispering, “Either you give up bootlegging, or I’m moving Mom and Dad away from you.”

Alfred’s eyes went wide. “W-what—”

But Matthew didn’t budge. “You can keep the house—I’m not kicking you out. But I’m using my savings to get us away from you. I can’t risk their safety because you want to make an extra buck.”

“Matthew, you’re being a little rash, darling,” their mother interjected in her usual soft voice, but it held an air of panic. Her eyes darted between her two sons, holding out a hand for Matthew, but the blond shook his head. 

“No, Mom, I’m not,” he replied, and when he looked up and made eye contact with his father, he knew his father knew he was right. “Who says that the Braginskis can’t just track him down and murder all of us as insurance? Did you escape from them?”

Alfred stared up at the ceiling to avoid eye contact with his brother. “They’re the ones who stitched me up.” 

That clearly caught Matthew off guard. “I—what?” He faltered and struggled with his words for a moment before regaining his grasp and said, “That’s beside the point. If it’s not the Braginskis, it’ll be some other clan. There are many factory jobs opening up. Take one. They pay well.”

“Matt—”

“No, I know what you’re going to say,” Matthew interrupted, holding up a hand to let his brother know he was serious. “Drop the bootlegging gig. Now.”

And that was how Alfred found himself on the linoleum floor of a steel factory on the outskirts of Queens, and even though the machines were overwhelmingly large and the safety regulations were nonexistent, it was safest he’d ever been compared to his bootlegging job. And he hated it. 

…

Ivan awoke with a bright smile on his face as he rubbed the sleep dust from his eyes, looking up at the ceiling as he imagined what Alfred would look like as he just woke up. Would his hair be messy? It seemed impossible for such a perfectly golden head of hair to look messy. Did he drool? Even if he did, it’d be the most adorable thing he’d ever seen instead of the usual disgusting reaction the action would receive. Alfred’s presence was enough to have the Russian wake up excited to get out of bed, and that was a nearly impossible feat to do because a new day almost always meant fresh blood and a list of orders from his father. He couldn’t wait to see Alfred again, and instead of having to go to that dank nightclub in the middle of the night, he could just walk down the stairs and see the main reason for his constant smiles in a few minutes.

Ivan Braginski was finally happy. 

Which made it all the more devastating when he discovered the bed empty and the window open, the curtains billowing and swaying with the crisp morning breeze. He walked over and placed a hand on the mattress: it was cold. Only then did he discover the bedsheets tied around the leg of the wardrobe, and when he looked over the windowsill, his heart dropped down to his feet.

The light left his eyes.

Alfred had left him.

And he was left, completely and utterly, alone.

…

The hours at the factory were long and laborious, and Alfred came home every night for the next two months as exhausted as his brother when he was usually extra preppy after a successful night of bootlegging. His wound healed up nicely and he was able to get the stitches taken out thanks to the salve his mother splurged on and applied on him every night, but it still hurt occasionally, a phantom pain that never left him alone. He would barely have the strength to lift a fork up to his lips during dinnertime with how sore his forearms were from carrying steel beams around all day, and his mother would have to feed him as she did when he was a child. It was nostalgic for all the wrong reasons.

Which was why Alfred found himself at the nightclub he discovered himself for the first time and found that innocent, giddy happiness within Ivan he heard rich teenagers his age had instead of having to labor at a factory for twelve hours a day. He needed that nostalgia that had been taken away from him right as he was on the cusp of deepening his relationship with Ivan, which was why he was turning his head every which way to try and find the silver-haired man that turned his world upside down.

It had been two whole months without a hint of Ivan Braginski. Ivan never sent out any troops to find him, and although Alfred never wrote down or told the Russian his address, he was sure the mobster would find a way to find his location at all times. It had been so long, in fact, that the entire thing felt like a dream—or nightmare. Alfred was almost offended with how quickly Ivan seemed to forget about him. Had he meant nothing to him? The only reminder he had of that time he spent pining after a male Russian mobster was the scar he garnered on that one fateful night as a consequence of him succumbing to his desires. He hadn’t made the same mistake, and instead of frequenting the same nightclub he met Ivan, he only traveled between his home and the factory.

His father shoved women in his face as possible wives whenever he spoke to him, and he was quickly running out of excuses as to why he was not attracted to the women. He could only use the “I’m too young” card so many times, especially since most everybody else was already married and pregnant.

That was how he ended up right back where the nightmare/dream started: the speakeasy.

The longer he was at the bar awaiting his mysterious friend, the more he drank. He barely registered how much alcohol he consumed because he was so focused on scanning the crowd for the Russian, and before long, he needed to hold onto the counter with every muscle in his arms to try and not fall on the ground. The angry discolored scar that was left behind from his wound caused him pain, but the alcohol thankfully dulled it. He asked for one more drink, but when the waiter saw his current state, he declined and sent Alfred on his way. He drunkenly cussed the bartender out for not doing his job and hopped to his feet, swaying like a piece of paper in the wind before gaining his balance and stomping over to the back alley door in a state of fury.

“Stupid bartender. Stupid Ivan. Fuck you, Ivan. I can get along just fine by myself. I don’t need you. Maybe I’ll find a guy who’s better than you. The kiss wasn’t even that good anyway,” he mumbled to himself, slurring in such a horrible way, any passerby wouldn’t be able to decipher his words.

However, the four men smoking quietly just around the corner overheard. And they overheard very well.

“You hear that, fellas?” one of them mumbled, motioning with his chin to the drunken blond kicking empty beer bottles around with his hands in his pockets as he slowly stumbled his way home. “Ain’t Ivan a guy’s name? And he’s talking ‘bout a kiss?”

The second snickered, plucking the cigarette from between his lips and breathing the smoke out from his nostrils. “Sounds like a pansy to me. This city’s getting sicker every day. Probably came from Jersey.”

“What do you say,” the third started, pushing his sleeves up to his elbows, “we teach ‘im a lesson?”

The other three chuckled darkly and nodded, dropping their cigarettes to the ground and snuffing them out under their shoes before walking down the alley. It didn’t take long for them to catch up to Alfred, and when the first did, he placed a hand on Alfred’s shoulder and spun him around effortlessly with how loose the blond was.

“Huh?” Alfred mumbled, his eyes taking a moment to focus on the men in front of him. “Who’re you guys?”

“Ah, you don’t really care about names, do you?” the fourth asked with a smirk, grabbing Alfred by the front of his shirt and tossing him against the wall. “Don’t you just go at it with any stranger? Ain’t that how you fags work?”

“F-fag—” Alfred’s eyes widened, and a gasp cut himself off as a hand flew up to his mouth. “N-no, wait, I—”

“Aw, he’s embarrassed,” the second cooed, getting out his pocket knife and pushing open Alfred’s jacket to reveal the white button-down underneath, which had since gone transparent and stuck to his skin with how much whiskey he had spilled on himself. “He isn’t too bad-looking. Do you spread your legs for everybody or just those who pay?”

By now, even Alfred’s incredibly incapacitated brain managed to understand the gravity of his situation. His eyebrows furrowed as he tried to raise a hand to push away the pocket knife, but the third man grabbed his wrist and pinned it against the wall, leaning in close enough for the tip of his nose to brush against Alfred’s cheek. He smelled like tobacco and sweat, and Alfred’s nose scrunched at the offending odor.

“Get off me,” he protested, but they did anything but. Instead, the second sliced open the front of his shirt, only nicking him slightly, and pushed open the torn flaps to reveal his torso and ran a hand down the pronounced ab muscles, but it was quickly hidden by Alfred doubling over and kicking the second in between the legs, causing the man to buckle to his knees as his comrades to pile on top of him.

“You just made the wrong move, pal,” the first growled, pinning Alfred’s hands over his head while the third’s hands went straight to his belt.

“Get off, get _off_!” Alfred shrieked, kicking and flailing as much as he could until one of his kicks landed smack dab in the middle of the third’s stomach, causing him to fly back. Before the other two men could replace his place, the blond’s eyes fell to the gun in the pocket of the man on top of him, admiring the way it so easily stuck out from his jeans. It would be so easy to just…

Either it was the alcohol or simply the need to survive that took over his entire body—whatever it was, it caused his vision to flash red as he reached forward for the gun, screaming the entire time as he did so. His fingers wrapped around the gun and pressed the muzzle into the man’s sternum, glaring at him until his buddies backed off.

“Just leave me alone,” Alfred huffed, his body coursing with adrenaline. He was terribly sober at this point, the alcohol leaving his body through sweat and tears. “I don’t want to shoot you. Please, just leave.” His voice cracked with desperation. All he could think at that moment was Ivan’s warning.

_“Please don’t become like me, Alfred.”_

He gulped, his hand beginning to shake. The man thought that that was his opening and reached forward to grab the gun, but the pop that ricocheted off the walls surprised both the man and Alfred, and before long, the light drained from the man’s eyes and came out as warm blood that splashed on Alfred’s chest as he fell forward limply like a doll.

“Run!” It didn’t matter which of the men shouted that because, before long, Alfred was left alone with the corpse on top of him, the eerie silence and the pool of blood cooling and congealing on his stomach.

He had killed somebody. And even worse, his finger was still on the trigger, ready to kill and snuff yet another life out of existence. He was officially a murderer. He was officially like Ivan.


End file.
